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A   Portrait  of  the  Artist 
as  a  Young  Man 


BOOKS  BY  JAMES  JOYCE 

"A  PORTRAIT  OF  THE  ARTIST  AS  A 
YOUNG  MAN" 

"DUBLINERS"  (Short  stories) 

"EXILES"    (Drama) 

'^CHAMBER  MUSIC"   (Poems) 


A  Portrait  of  the  Artist 
as  a  Young  Man 


BY 

JAMES  JOYCE 


NEW  YORK 
B.  W.  HUEBSCH,  Inc. 

MCMXXI 


COPYRIGHT,  1916,  BY 
B.  W.  HUEBSCH 


First  printing,  December  1916 
Second  printing,  April  1917 
Third  printing,  June  1918 
Fourth  printing,  September  1921 


A  PORTRAIT  OF  THE  ARTIST 
AS  A  YOUNG  MAN 

^^  Et  ignotas  animicm  dimittit  in  artes/^ 

Ovid,  Metamorphoses,  VIII.,  18. 

CHAPTER  I 

Once  upon  a  time  and  a  very  good  time  it  was  there  was 
a  moocow  coming  down  along  the  road  and  this  mooeow 
that  was  down  along  the  road  met  a  nicens  little  boy 
named  baby  tuckoo.  .  .  . 

His  father  told  him  that  story :  his  father  looked  at  him 
through  a  glass :  he  had  a  hairy  face. 

He  was  baby  tuckoo.  The  moocow  came  down  the  road 
where  Betty  Byrne  lived :  she  sold  lemon  platt. 

0,  the  wild  rose  blossoms 
0%  the  little  green  place. 

He  sang  that  song.     That  was  his  song. 

O,  the  green  wothe  hotheth. 

When  you  wet  the  bed,  first  it  is  warm  then  it  gets 
cold.  His  mother  put  on  the  oilsheet.  That  had  the 
queer  smell. 

His  mother  had  a  nicer  smell  than  his  father.    She 

[1] 


played  on  the  piano  the  sailor's  hornpipe  for  him  to 
danee.    He  danced: 

Tralala  lala, 
Tralala  tralaladdy, 
Tralala  lala, 
Tralala  lala. 

Uncle  Charles  and  Dante  clapped.  They  were  older 
than  his  father  and  mother  but  Uncle  Charles  was  older 
than  Dante. 

Dante  had  two  brushes  in  her  press.  The  brush  with 
the  maroon  velvet  back  was  for  Michael  Davitt  and  the 
brush  with  the  green  velvet  back  was  for  Parnell.  Dante 
gave  him  a  cachou  every  time  he  brought  her  a  piece  of 
tissue  paper. 

The  Vances  lived  in  number  seven.  They  had  a  dif- 
ferent father  and  mother.  They  were  Eileen's  father 
and  mother.  When  they  were  grown  up  he  was  going  to 
marry  Eileen.    He  hid  under  the  table.    His  mother  said : 

—  0,  Stephen  will  apologise. 
Dante  said: 

—  0,  if  not,  the  eagles  will  come  and  pull  out  his 
eyes. — 

Pull  out  his  eyes, 

Apologise, 

Apologise, 

Pull  out  his  eyes. 

Apologise, 

Pull  out  his  eyes. 

Pull  out  his  eyes, 

Apologise. 
*  *  m  m 

[2] 


The  wide  playgrounds  were  swarming  with  boys.  All 
were  shouting  and  the  prefects  urged  them  on  with 
strong  cries.  The  evening  air  was  pale  and  chilly  and 
after  every  charge  and  thud  of  the  foot-ballers  the 
greasy  leather  orb  flew  like  a  heavy  bird  through  the  grey 
light.  He  kept  on  the  fringe  of  his  line,  out  of  sight  of 
his  prefect,  out  of  the  reach  of  the  rude  feet,  feigning  to 
run  now  and  then.  He  felt  his  body  small  and  weak 
amid  the  throng  of  players  and  his  eyes  were  weak  and 
watery.  Body  Kickham  was  not  like  that :  he  would  be 
captain  of  the  third  line  all  the  fellows  said. 

Eody  Kickham  was  a  decent  fellow  but  Nasty  Roche 
was  a  stink.  Eody  Kickham  had  greaves  in  his  number 
and  a  hamper  in  the  refectory.  Nasty  Roche  had  big 
hands.  He  called  the  Friday  pudding  dog-in-the-blan- 
ket.    And  one  day  he  had  asked : 

—  What  is  your  name  ? 

Stephen  had  answered :  Stephen  Dedalus. 
Then  Nasty  Roche  had  said: 

—  "What  kind  of  a  name  is  that? 

And  when  Stephen  had  not  been  able  to  answer  Nasty 
Roche  had  asked : 

—  What  is  your  father  ? 
Stephen  had  answered : 

—  A  gentleman. 

Then  Nasty  Roche  had  asked: 

—  Is  he  a  magistrate  ? 

He  crept  about  from  point  to  point  on  the  fringe  of 
his  line,  making  little  runs  now  and  then.  But  his  hands 
were  bluish  with  cold.  He  kept  his  hands  in  the  side 
pockets  of  his  belted  grey  suit.  That  was  a  belt  round 
his  pocket.  And  belt  was  also  to  give  a  fellow  a  belt. 
One  day  a  fellow  had  said  to  Cantwell : 

[3] 


—  I'd  give  you  such  a  belt  in  a  second. 
Cantwell  had  answered: 

X — Go  and  fight  your  match.  Give  Cecil  Thunder  a 
belt.  I'd  like  to  see  you.  He'd  give  you  a  toe  in  the 
rump  for  yourself. 

That  was  not  a  nice  expression.  His  mother  had  told 
him  not  to  speak  with  the  rough  boys  in  the  college. 
Nice  mother !  The  first  day  in  the  hall  of  the  castle  when 
she  had  said  goodbye  she  had  put  up  her  veil  double  to 
her  nose  to  kiss  him:  and  her  nose  and  eyes  were  red. 
But  he  had  pretended  not  to  see  that  she  was  going  to 
cry.  She  was  a  nice  mother  but  she  was  not  so  nice 
when  she  cried.  And  his  father  had  given  him  two  five- 
shilling  pieces  for  pocket  money.  And  his  father  had 
told  him  if  he  wanted  anything  to  write  home  to  him  and, 
whatever  he  did,  never  to  peach  on  a  fellow.  Then  at 
the  door  of  the  castle  the  rector  had  shaken  hands  with 
his  father  and  mother,  his  soutane  fluttering  in  the 
breeze,  and  the  car  had  driven  off  with  his  father  and 
mother  on  it.  They  had  cried  to  him  from  the  car,  wav- 
ing their  hands: 

—  Good-bye,  Stephen,  goodbye! 

—  Good-bye,  Stephen,  goodbye! 

He  was  caught  in  the  whirl  of  a  scrimmage  and,  fear- 
ful of  the  flashing  eyes  and  muddy  boots,  bent  down  to 
look  through  the  legs.  The  fellows  were  struggling  and 
groaning  and  their  legs  were  rubbing  and  kicking  and 
stamping.  Then  Jack  Lawton's  yellow  boots  dodged  out 
the  ball  and  all  the  other  boots  and  legs  ran  after.  He 
ran  after  them  a  little  way  and  then  stopped.  It  was 
useless  to  run  on.  Soon  they  would  be  going  home  for 
the  holidays.    After  supper  in  the  study  hall  he  would 

[4] 


change  the  number  pasted  up  inside  his  desk  from  sev- 
entyseven  to  seventysix. 

It  would  be  better  to  be  in  the  study  hall  than  out 
there  in  the  cold.  The  sky  was  pale  and  cold  but  there 
were  lights  in  the  castle.  He  wondered  from  which  win- 
dow Hamilton  Eowan  had  thrown  his  hat  on  the  haha 
and  had  there  been  flowerbeds  at  that  time  under  the 
windows.  One  day  when  he  had  been  called  to  the  castle 
the  butler  had  shown  him  the  marks  of  the  soldiers'  slugs 
in  the  wood  of  the  door  and  had  given  him  a  piece  of 
shortbread  that  the  community  ate.  It  was  nice  and 
warm  to  see  the  lights  in  the  castle.  It  was  like  some- 
thing in  a  book.  Perhaps  Leicester  Abbey  was  like  that. 
And  there  were  nice  sentences  in  Doctor  Cornweirs 
Spelling  Book.  They  were  like  poetry  but  they  were 
only  sentences  to  learn  the  spelling  from. 

Wolsey  died  in  Leicester  Ahhey 
Where  the  abbots  buried  him. 
Canker  is  a  disease  of  plants, 
Cancer  one  of  animals. 

It  would  be  nice  to  lie  on  the  hearthrug  before  the  fire, 
leaning  his  head  upon  his  hands,  and  think  on  those  sen- 
tences. He  shivered  as  if  he  had  cold  slimy  water  next 
his  skin.  That  was  mean  of  Wells  to  shoulder  him  into 
the  square  ditch  because  he  would  not  swop  his  little 
snuffbox  for  Wells's  seasoned  hacking  chestnut,  the  con- 
queror of  forty.  How  cold  and  slimy  the  water  had 
been!  A  fellow  had  once  seen  a  big  rat  jump  into  the 
scum.  Mother  was  sitting  at  the  fire  with  Dante  waiting 
for  Brigid  to  bring  in  the  tea.  She  had  her  feet  on  the 
fender  and  her  jewelly  slippers  were  so  hot  and  they  had 

[5] 


such  a  lovely  warm  smell !  Dante  knew  a  lot  of  things. 
She  had  taught  him  where  the  Mozambique  Channel  was 
and  what  was  the  longest  river  in  America  and  what 
was  the  name  of  the  highest  mountain  in  the  moon. 
Father  Arnall  knew  more  than  Dante  because  he  was  a 
priest  but  both  his  father  and  Uncle  Charles  said  that 
Dante  was  a  clever  woman  and  a  wellread  woman.  And 
when  Dante  made  that  noise  after  dinner  and  then  put 
up  her  hand  to  her  mouth :  that  was  heartburn. 
A  voice  cried  far  out  on  the  playground : 

—  All  in! 

Then  other  voices  cried  from  the  lower  and  third 
lines : 

—  All  in!     All  in! 

The  players  closed  around,  flushed  and  muddy,  and 
he  went  among  them,  glad  to  go  in.  Body  Kickham  held 
the  ball  by  its  greasy  lace.  A  fellow  asked  him  to  give 
it  one  last :  but  he  walked  on  without  even  answering  the 
fellow.  Simon  Moonan  told  him  not  to  because  the  pre- 
fect was  looking.  The  fellow  turned  to  Simon  Moonan 
and  said : 

—  We  all  know  why  you  speak.  You  are  McGlade's 
suck. 

Suck  was  a  queer  word.  The  fellow  called  Simon 
Moonan  that  name  because  Simon  Moonan  used  to  tie 
the  prefect's  false  sleeves  behind  his  back  and  the  pre- 
fect used  to  let  on  to  be  angry.  But  the  sound  was  ugly. 
Once  he  had  washed  his  hands  in  the  lavatory  of  the 
Wicklow  Hotel  and  his  father  pulled  the  stopper  up  by 
the  chain  after  and  the  dirty  water  went  down  through 
the  hole  in  the  basin.  And  when  it  had  all  gone  down 
slowly  the  hole  in  the  basin  had  made  a  sound  like  that : 
suck.    Only  louder. 

[6] 


To  remember  that  and  the  white  look  of  the  lava- 
tory made  him  feel  cold  and  then  hot.  There  were  two 
cocks  that  you  turned  and  water  came  out :  cold  and  hot. 
He  felt  cold  and  then  a  little  hot :  and  he  could  see  the 
names  printed  on  the  cocks.  That  was  a  very  queer 
thing. 

And  the  air  in  the  corridor  chilled  him  too.  It  was 
queer  and  wettish.  But  soon  the  gas  would  be  lit  and 
in  burning  it  made  a  light  noise  like  a  little  song.  Al- 
ways the  same :  and  when  the  fellows  stopped  talking  in 
the  playroom  you  could  hear  it. 

It  was  the  hour  for  sums.  Father  Arnall  wrote  a  hard 
sum  on  the  board  and  then  said : 

—  Now  then,  who  will  win?  Go  ahead,  York!  Go 
ahead,  Lancaster! 

Stephen  tried  his  best  but  the  sum  was  too  hard  and 
he  felt  confused.  The  little  silk  badge  with  the  white 
rose  on  it  that  was  pinned  on  the  breast  of  his  jacket  be- 
gan to  flutter.  He  was  no  good  at  sums  but  he  tried  his 
best  so  that  York  might  not  lose.  Father  Arnall's  face 
looked  very  black  but  he  was  not  in  a  wax :  he  was  laugh- 
ing. Then  Jack  Lawton  cracked  his  fingers  and  Father 
Arnall  looked  at  his  copybook  and  said : 

—  Right.  Bravo  Lancaster!  The  red  rose  wins. 
Come  on  now,  York !     Forge  ahead ! 

Jack  Lawton  looked  over  from  his  side.  The  little 
silk  badge  with  the  red  rose  on  it  looked  very  rich  be- 
cause he  had  a  blue  sailor  top  on.  Stephen  felt  his  own 
face  red  too,  thinking  of  all  the  bets  about  who  would 
get  first  place  in  Elements,  Jack  Lawton  or  he.  Some 
weeks  Jack  Lawton  got  the  card  for  first  and  some  weeks 
he  got  the  card  for  first.  His  white  silk  badge  fluttered 
and  fluttered  as  he  worked  a^^  the  next  sum  and  heard 

[7] 


Father  Arnall's  voice.  Then  all  his  eagerness  passed 
away  and  he  felt  his  face  quite  cool.  He  thought  his 
face  must  be  white  because  it  felt  so  cool.  He  could  not 
get  out  the  answer  for  the  sum  but  it  did  not  matter. 
White  roses  and  red  roses:  those  were  beautiful  colours 
to  think  of.  And  the  cards  for  first  place  and  third  place 
were  beautiful  colours  too :  pink  and  cream  and  lavender. 
Lavender  and  cream  and  pink  roses  were  beautiful  to 
think  of.  Perhaps  a  wild  rose  might  be  like  those  col- 
ours and  he  remembered  the  song  about  the  wild  rose  blos- 
soms on  the  little  green  place.  But  you  could  not  have 
a  green  rose.  But  perhaps  somewhere  in  the  world  you 
could. 

The  bell  rang  and  then  the  classes  began  to  file  out 
of  the  rooms  and  along  the  corridors  towards  the  refec- 
tory. He  sat  looking  at  the  two  prints  of  butter  on  his 
plate  but  could  not  eat  the  damp  bread.  The  table- 
cloth was  damp  and  limp.  ,  But  he  drank  off  the  hot 
weak  tea  which  the  clumsy  scullion,  girt  with  a  white 
apron,  poured  into  his  cup.  He  wondered  whether  the 
scullion 's  apron  was  damp  too  or  whether  all  white  things 
were  cold  and  damp.  Nasty  Roche  and  Saurin  drank 
cocoa  that  their  people  sent  them  in  tins.  They  said 
they  could  not  drink  the  tea ;  that  it  was  hogwash.  Their 
fathers  were  magistrates,  the  fellows  said. 

All  the  boys  seemed  to  him  very  strange.  They  had 
all  fathers  and  mothers  and  different  clothes  and  voices. 
He  longed  to  be  at  home  and  lay  his  head  on  his  mother's 
lap.  But  he  could  not:  and  so  he  longed  for  the  play 
and  study  and  prayers  to  be  over  and  to  be  in  bed. 

He  drank  another  cup  of  hot  tea  and  Fleming  said : 

—  What's  up?  Have  you  a  pain  or  what's  up  with 
you? 

[8] 


—  I  don't  know,  Stephen  said. 

—  Sick  in  your  bread  basket  —  Fleming  said  —  be- 
cause your  face  looks  white.    It  will  go  away. 

—  0  yes,  Stephen  said. 

But  he  was  not  sick  there.  He  thought  that  he  was 
sick  in  his  heart  if  you  could  be  sick  in  that  place.  Flem- 
ing was  very  decent  to  ask  him.  He  wanted  to  cry.  He 
leaned  his  elbows  on  the  table  and  shut  and  opened  the 
flaps  of  his  ears.  Then  he  heard  the  noise  of  the  refec- 
tory every  time  he  opened  the  flaps  of  his  ears.  It  made 
a  roar  like  a  train  at  night.  And  when  he  closed  the  flaps 
the  roar  was  shut  off  like  a  train  going  into  a  tunnel. 
That  night  at  Dalkey  the  train  had  roared  like  that 
and  then,  when  it  went  into  the  tunnel,  the  roar  stopped. 
He  closed  his  eyes  and  the  train  went  on,  roaring  and 
then  stopping;  roaring  again,  stopping.  It  was  nice  to 
hear  it  roar  and  stop  and  then  roar  out  of  the  tunnel 
again  and  then  stop. 

Then  the  higher  line  fellows  began  to  come  down  along 
the  matting  in  the  middle  of  the  refectory,  Paddy  Kath 
and  Jimmy  Magee  and  the  Spaniard  who  was  allowed 
to  smoke  cigars  and  the  little  Portuguese  who  wore  the 
woolly  cap.  And  then  the  lower  line  tables  and  the  ta- 
bles of  the  third  line.  And  every  single  fellow  had  a 
different  way  of  walking. 

He  sat  in  a  corner  of  the  playroom  pretending  to  watch 
a  game  of  dominos  and  once  or  twice  he  was  able  to 
hear  for  an  instant  the  little  song  of  the  gas.  The  pre- 
fect was  at  the  door  with  some  boys  and  Simon  Moonan 
was  knotting  his  false  sleeves.  He  was  telling  them  some- 
thing about  TuUabeg. 

Then  he  went  away  from  the  door  and  Wells  came 
over  to  Stephen  and  said : 

[9] 


—  Tell  us,  Dedalus,  do  you  kiss  your  mother  before 
you  go  to  bed  ? 

Stephen  answered: 

—  I  do. 

Wells  turned  to  the  other  fellows  and  said : 

—  0,  I  say,  here's  a  fellow  says  he  kisses  his  mother 
every  night  before  he  goes  to  bed. 

The  other  fellows  stopped  their  game  and  turned  round, 
laughing.     Stephen  blushed  under  their  eyes  and  said : 

—  I  do  not. 
Wells  said : 

—  0,  I  say,  here's  a  fellow  says  he  doesn't  kiss  his 
mother  before  he  goes  to  bed. 

They  all  laughed  again.  Stephen  tried  to  laugh  with 
them.  He  felt  his  whole  body  hot  and  confused  in  a 
moment.  What  was  the  right  answer  to  the  question? 
He  had  given  two  and  still  Wells  laughed.  But  Wells 
must  know  the  right  answer  for  he  was  in  third  of  gram- 
mar. He  tried  to  think  of  Wells's  mother  but  he  did  not 
dare  to  raise  his  eyes  to  Wells's  face.  He  did  not  like 
Wells's  face.  It  was  Wells  who  had  shouldered  him  into 
the  square  ditch  the  day  before  because  he  would  not 
swop  his  little  snufifbox  for  Wells's  seasoned  hacking 
chestnut,  the  conqueror  of  forty.  It  was  a  mean  thing  to 
do ;  all  the  fellows  said  it  was.  And  how  cold  and  slimy 
the  water  had  been !  And  a  fellow  had  once  seen  a  big 
rat  jump  plop  into  the  scum. 

The  cold  slime  of  the  ditch  covered  his  whole  body; 
and,  when  the  bell  rang  for  study  and  the  lines  filed  out 
of  the  playrooms,  he  felt  the  cold  air  of  the  corridor  and 
staircase  inside  his  clothes.  He  still  tried  to  think  what 
was  the  right  answer.  Was  it  right  to  kiss  his  mother  or 
wrong  to  kiss  his  mother  ?    What  did  that  mean,  to  kiss  ? 

[10] 


You  put  your  face  up  like  that  to  say  goodnight  and  then 
his  mother  put  her  face  down.  That  was  to  kiss.  His 
mother  put  her  lips  on  his  cheek ;  her  lips  were  soft  and 
they  wetted  his  cheek ;  and  they  made  a  tiny  little  noise : 
kiss.    Why  did  people  do  that  with  their  two  faces? 

Sitting  in  the  study  hall  he  opened  the  lid  of  his  desk 
and  changed  the  number  pasted  up  inside  from  seventy- 
seven  to  seventysix.  But  the  Christmas  vacation  was 
very  far  away :  but  one  time  it  would  come  because  the 
earth  moved  round  always. 

There  was  a  picture  of  the  earth  on  the  first  page  of 
his  geography :  a  big  ball  in  the  middle  of  clouds.  Flem- 
ing had  a  box  of  crayons  and  one  night  during  free  study 
he  had  coloured  the  earth  green  and  the  clouds  maroon. 
That  was  like  the  two  brushes  in  Dante's  press,  the  brush 
with  the  green  velvet  back  for  Parnell  and  the  brush 
with  the  maroon  velvet  back  for  Michael  Davitt.  But  he 
had  not  told  Fleming  to  colour  them  those  colours.  Flem- 
ing had  done  it  himself. 

He  opened  the  geography  to  study  the  lesson ;  but  he 
could  not  learn  the  names  of  places  in  America.  Still 
they  were  all  different  places  that  had  different  names. 
They  were  all  in  different  countries  and  the  countries 
were  in  continents  and  the  continents  were  in  the  world 
and  the  world  was  in  the  universe. 

He  turned  to  the  flyleaf  of  the  geography  and  read 
what  he  had  written  there :  himself,  his  name  and  where 
he  was. 

Stephen  Dedalus 

Class  of  Elements 

Clongowes  Wood  College 

Sallins 

County  Kildare 

[11] 


Ireland 
Europe 
The  World 
The  Universe 

That  was  in  his  writing :  and  Fleming  one  night  for  a 
cod  had  written  on  the  opposite  page : 

Stephen  Dedalus  is  my  name, 
Ireland  is  my  nation, 
Clongowes  is  my  dwellingplace 
And  heaven  my  expectation. 

He  read  the  verses  backwards  but  then  they  were  not 
poetry.  Then  he  read  the  flyleaf  from  the  bottom  to  the 
top  till  he  came  to  his  own  name.  That  was  he:  and 
he  read  down  the  page  again.  What  was  after  the  uni- 
verse? Nothing.  But  was  there  anything  round  the 
universe  to  show  where  it  stopped  before  the  nothing 
place  began  ?  It  could  not  be  a  wall  but  there  could  be 
a  thin  thin  line  there  all  round  everything.  It  was  very 
big  to  think  about  everything  and  everywhere.  Only 
God  could  do  that.  He  tried  to  think  what  a  big  thought 
that  must  be  but  he  could  think  only  of  God.  God 
was  God's  name  just  as  his  name  was  Stephen.  Dieu 
was  the  French  for  God  and  that  was  God's  name  too; 
and  when  anyone  prayed  to  God  and  said  Dieu  then 
God  knew  at  once  that  it  was  a  French  person  that  was 
praying.  But  though  there  were  different  names  for 
God  in  all  the  different  languages  in  the  world  and  God 
understood  what  all  the  people  who  prayed  said  in  their 
different  languages  still  God  remained  always  the  same 
God  and  God's  real  name  was  God. 

[12] 


It  made  him  very  tired  to  think  that  way.  It  made 
him  feel  his  head  very  big.  He  turned  over  the  flyleaf 
and  looked  wearily  at  the  green  round  earth  in  the  mid- 
dle of  the  maroon  clouds.  He  wondered  which  was  right, 
to  be  for  the  green  or  for  the  maroon,  because  Dante  had 
ripped  the  green  velvet  back  off  the  brush  that  was  for 
Parnell  one  day  with  her  scissors  and  had  told  him  that 
Parnell  was  a  bad  man.  He  wondered  if  they  were 
arguing  at  home  about  that.  That  was  called  politics. 
There  were  two  sides  in  it :  Dante  was  on  one  side  and 
his  father  and  Mr.  Casey  were  on  the  other  side  but  his 
mother  and  Uncle  Charles  were  on  no  side.  Every  day 
there  was  something  in  the  paper  about  it. 

It  pained  him  that  he  did  not  know  well  what  politics 
meant  and  that  he  did  not  know  where  the  universe 
ended.  He  felt  small  and  weak.  When  would  he  be 
like  the  fellows  in  Poetry  and  Rhetoric?  They  had  big 
voices  and  big  boots  and  they  studied  trigonometry. 
That  was  very  far  away.  First  came  the  vacation  and 
then  the  next  term  and  then  vacation  again  and  then 
again  another  term  and  then  again  the  vacation.  It  was 
like  a  train  going  in  and  out  of  tunnels  and  that  was  like 
the  noise  of  the  boys  eating  in  the  refectory  when  you 
opened  and  closed  the  flaps  of  the  ears.  Term,  vacation ; 
tunnel,  out ;  noise,  stop.  How  far  away  it  was !  It  was 
better  to  go  to  bed  to  sleep.  Only  prayers  in  the  chapel 
and  then  bed.  He  shivered  and  yawned.  It  would  be 
lovely  in  bed  after  the  sheets  got  a  bit  hot.  First  they 
were  so  cold  to  get  into.  He  shivered  to  think  how  cold 
they  were  first.  But  then  they  got  hot  and  then  he  could 
sleep.  It  was  lovely  to  be  tired.  He  yawned  again. 
Night  prayers  and  then  bed :  he  shivered  and  wanted  to 
yawn.    It  would  be  lovely  in  a  few  minutes.    He  felt  a 

[13] 


warm  glow  creeping  up  from  the  cold  shivering  sheets, 
warmer  and  warmer  till  he  felt  warm  all  over,  ever  so 
warm  and  yet  he  shivered  a  little  and  still  wanted  to 
yawn. 

The  bell  rang  for  night  prayers  and  he  filed  out  of  the 
study  hall  after  the  others  and  down  the  staircase  and 
along  the  corridors  to  the  chapel.  The  corridors  were 
darkly  lit  and  the  chapel  was  darkly  lit.  Soon  all  would 
be  dark  and  sleeping.  There  was  cold  night  air  in  the 
chapel  and  the  marbles  were  the  colour  the  sea  was  at 
night.  The  sea  was  cold  day  and  night :  but  it  was  colder 
at  night.  It  was  cold  and  dark  under  the  seawall  beside 
his  father's  house.  But  the  kettle  would  be  on  the  hob  to 
make  punch. 

The  prefect  of  the  chapel  prayed  above  his  head  and 
his  memory  knew  the  responses  : 

0  Lord,  open  our  lips 

And  our  mouths  shall  announce  Thy  praise. 

Incline  unto  our  aid,  0  God! 

0  Lord,  make  haste  to  help  us! 

There  was  a  cold  night  smell  in  the  chapel.  But  it 
was  a  holy  smell.  It  was  not  like  the  smell  of  the  old 
peasants  who  knelt  at  the  back  of  the  chapel  at  Sunday 
mass.  That  was  a  smell  of  air  and  rain  and  turf  and 
corduroy.  But  they  were  very  holy  peasants.  They 
breathed  behind  him  on  his  neck  and  sighed  as  they 
prayed.  They  lived  in  Clane,  a  fellow  said :  there  were 
little  cottages  there  and  he  had  seen  a  woman  standing  at 
the  halfdoor  of  a  cottage  with  a  child  in  her  arms,  as  the 
cars  had  come  past  from  Sallins.  It  would  be  lovely  to 
sleep  for  one  night  in  that  cottage  before  the  fire  of  smok- 

[14] 


iiig  turf  J  in  the  dark  lit  by  the  fire,  in  the  warm  dark, 
breathing  the  smell  of  the  peasants,  air  and  rain  and  turf 
and  corduroy.  But,  0,  the  road  there  between  the  trees 
was  dark !  You  would  be  lost  in  the  dark.  It  made  him 
afraid  to  think  of  how  it  was. 

He  heard  the  voice  of  the  prefect  of  the  chapel  saying 
the  last  prayer.  He  prayed  it  too  against  the  dark  out- 
side under  the  trees. 

Visit,  we  beseech  Thee,  0  Lord,  this  habitation  and 
drive  away  from  it  all  the  snares  of  the  enemy.  May 
Thy  holy  angels  dwell  herein  to  preserve  us  in  peace 
and  m>ay  Thy  blessing  be  always  upon  us  through 
Christ  our  Lord,    Amen, 

His  fingers  trembled  as  he  undressed  himself  in  the 
dormitory.  He  told  his  fingers  to  hurry  up.  He  had 
to  undress  and  then  kneel  and  say  his  own  prayers  and 
be  in  bed  before  the  gas  was  lowered  so  that  he  might  not 
go  to  hell  when  he  died.  He  rolled  his  stockings  off  and 
put  on  his  nightshirt  quickly  and  knelt  trembling  at  his 
bedside  and  repeated  his  prayers  quickly,  fearing  that 
the  gas  would  go  down.  He  felt  his  shoulders  shaking  as 
he  murmured : 

God  bless  my  father  and  my  mother  and  spare  them 

to  me! 
God  bless  my  little  brothers  and  sisters  and  spare 

them  to  me ! 
God  bless  Dante  and  Uncle  Charles  and  spare  them 

to  me ! 

He  blessed  himself  and  climbed  quickly  into  bed  and, 
tucking  the  end  of  the  nightshirt  under  his  feet,  curled 

[15] 


himself  together  under  the  cold  white  sheets,  shaking  and 
trembling.  But  he  would  not  go  to  hell  when  he  died ; 
and  the  shaking  would  stop.  A  voice  bade  the  boys  in 
the  dormitory  goodnight.  He  peered  out  for  an  instant 
over  the  coverlet  and  saw  the  yellow  curtains  round  and 
before  his  bed  that  shut  him  off  on  all  sides.  The  light 
was  lowered  quietly. 

The  prefect's  shoes  went  away.  Where?  Down  the 
staircase  and  along  the  corridors  or  to  his  room  at  the 
end?  He  saw  the  dark.  Was  it  true  about  the  black 
dog  that  walked  there  at  night  with  eyes  as  big  as  car- 
riagelamps  ?  They  said  it  was  the  ghost  of  a  murderer. 
A  long  shiver  of  fear  flowed  over  his  body.  He  saw  the 
dark  entrance  hall  of  the  castle.  Old  servants  in  old 
dress  were  in  the  ironingroom  above  the  staircase.  It 
was  long  ago.  The  old  servants  were  quiet.  There  was 
a  fire  there  but  the  hall  was  still  dark.  A  figure  came  up 
the  staircase  from  the  hall.  He  wore  the  white  cloak  of 
a  marshal;  his  face  was  pale  and  strange;  he  held  his 
hand  pressed  to  his  side.  He  looked  out  of  strange  eyes 
at  the  old  servants.  They  looked  at  him  and  saw  their 
master's  face  and  cloak  and  knew  that  he  had  received 
his  death  wound.  But  only  the  dark  was  where  they 
looked :  only  dark  silent  air.  Their  master  had  received 
his  death  wound  on  the  battlefield  of  Prague  far  away 
over  the  sea.  He  was  standing  on  the  field;  his  hand 
was  pressed  to  his  side ;  his  face  was  pale  and  strange  and 
he  wore  the  white  cloak  of  a  marshal. 

0  how  cold  and  strange  it  was  to  think  of  that !  All 
the  dark  was  cold  and  strange.  There  were  pale  strange 
faces  there,  great  eyes  like  carriagelamps.  They  were 
the  ghosts  of  murderers,  the  figures  of  marshals  who  had 
received  their  death  wound  on  battlefields  far  away  over 

[16] 


the  sea.    What  did  they  wish  to  say  that  their  faces  were 
so  strange  ? 

Visit,  we  beseech  Thee,  0  Lord,  this  habitation 
and  drive  away  from  it  all  ,  ,  , 

Going  home  for  the  holidays !  That  would  be  lovely : 
the  fellows  had  told  him.  Getting  up  on  the  cars  in  the 
early  wintry  morning  outside  the  door  of  the  castle. 
The  cars  were  rolling  on  the  gravel.  Cheers  for  the  rec- 
tor! 

Hurray!    Hurray!    Hurray! 

The  cars  drove  past  the  chapel  and  all  caps  were  raised. 
They  drove  merrily  along  the  country  roads.  The 
drivers  pointed  with  their  whips  to  Bodenstown.  The 
fellows  cheered.  They  passed  the  farmhouse  of  the  Jolly 
Farmer.  Cheer  after  cheer  after  cheer.  Through  Clane 
they  drove,  cheering  and  cheered.  The  peasant  women 
stood  at  the  halfdoors,  the  men  stood  here  and  there. 
The  lovely  smell  there  was  in  the  wintry  air:  the  smell 
of  Clane :  rain  and  wintry  air  and  turf  smouldering  and 
corduroy. 

The  train  was  full  of  fellows:  a  long  long  chocolate 
train  with  cream  facings.  The  guards  went  to  and  fro 
opening,  closing,  locking,  unlocking  the  doors.  They 
were  men  in  dark  blue  and  silver;  they  had  silvery 
whistles  and  their  keys  made  a  quick  music :  click,  click : 
click,  click. 

And  the  train  raced  on  over  the  flat  lands  and  past  the 
Hill  of  Allen.  The  telegraph  poles  were  passing,  pass- 
ing. The  train  went  on  and  on.  It  knew.  There  were 
lanterns  in  the  hall  of  his  father's  house  and  ropes  of 
green  branches.    There  were  holly  and  ivy  round  the 

[17] 


pierglass  and  holly  and  ivy,  green  and  red,  twined  round 
the  chandeliers.  There  were  red  holly  and  green  ivy 
round  the  old  portraits  on  the  walls.  Holly  and  ivy  for 
him  and  for  Christmas. 

Lovely     .     .     . 

All  the  people.  Welcome  home,  Stephen!  Noises  of 
welcome.  His  mother  kissed  him.  Was  that  right? 
His  father  was  a  marshal  now :  higher  than  a  magistrate. 
Welcome  home,  Stephen ! 

Noises    .     .     . 

There  was  a  noise  of  curtainrings  running  back  along 
the  rods,  of  water  being  splashed  in  the  basins.  There 
was  a  noise  of  rising  and  dressing  and  washing  in  the 
dormitory:  a  noise  of  clapping  of  hands  as  the  prefect 
went  up  and  down  telling  the  fellows  to  look  sharp.  A 
pale  sunlight  showed  the  yellow  curtains  drawn  back,  the 
tossed  beds.  His  bed  was  very  hot  and  his  face  and  body 
were  very  hot. 

He  got  up  and  sat  on  the  side  of  his  bed.  He  was 
weak.  He  tried  to  pull  on  his  stocking.  It  had  a  horrid 
rough  feel.     The  sunlight  was  queer  and  cold. 

Fleming  said : 

—  Are  you  not  well? 

He  did  not  know ;  and  Fleming  said : 

—  Get  back  into  bed.  Ill  tell  McGlade  you're  not 
well. 

—  He 's  sick. 

—  Who  is? 

—  Tell  McGlade. 

—  Get  back  into  bed. 

—  Is  he  sick  ? 

A  fellow  held  his  arms  while  he  loosened  the  stocking 
clinging  to  his  foot  and  climbed  back  into  the  hot  bed. 

[18] 


He  crouched  down  between  the  sheets,  glad  of  their 
tepid  glow.  He  heard  the  fellows  talk  among  themselves 
about  him  as  they  dressed  for  mass.  It  was  a  mean  thing 
to  do,  to  shoulder  him  into  the  square  ditch,  they  were 
saying. 

Then  their  voices  ceased;  they  had  gone.  A  voice  at 
his  bed  said : 

—  Dedalus,  don't  spy  on  us,  sure  you  won't  ? 
Wells's  face  was  there.    He  looked  at  it  and  saw  that 

Wells  was  afraid. 

—  I  didn  't  mean  to.     Sure  you  won 't  ? 

His  father  had  told  him,  whatever  he  did,  never  to 
peach  on  a  fellow.  He  shook  his  head  and  answered  no 
and  felt  glad. 

Wells  said: 

—  I  didn't  mean  to,  honour  bright.  It  was  only  for 
cod.     I'm  sorry. 

The  face  and  the  voice  went  away.  Sorry  because  he 
was  afraid.  Afraid  that  it  was  some  disease.  Canker 
was  a  disease  of  plants  and  cancer  one  of  animals :  or  an- 
other different.  That  was  a  long  time  ago  then  out  on 
the  playgrounds  in  the  evening  light,  creeping  from  point 
to  point  on  the  fringe  of  his  line,  a  heavy  bird  flying  low 
through  the  grey  light.  Leicester  Abbey  lit  up.  Wol- 
sey  died  there.     The  abbots  buried  him  themselves. 

It  was  not  Wells's  face,  it  was  the  prefect's.  He  was 
not  foxing.  No,  no:  he  was  sick  really.  He  was  not 
foxing.  And  he  felt  the  prefect 's  hand  on  his  forehead ; 
and  he  felt  his  forehead  warm  and  damp  against  the 
prefect's  cold  damp  hand.  That  was  the  way  a  rat  felt^ 
slimy  and  damp  and  cold.  Every  rat  had  two  eyes  to 
look  out  of.  Sleek  slimy  coats,  little  little  feet  tucked 
up  to  jump,  black  slimy  eyes  to  look  out  of.,    T^ey  cqu14 

[19j 


understand  how  to  jump.  But  the  minds  of  rats  could 
not  understand  trigonometry.  When  they  were  dead 
they  lay  on  their  sides.  Their  coats  dried  then.  They 
were  only  dead  things. 

The  prefect  was  there  again  and  it  was  his  voice  that 
was  saying  that  he  was  to  get  up,  that  Father  Minister 
had  said  he  was  to  get  up  and  dress  and  go  to  the  in- 
firmary. And  while  he  was  dressing  himself  as  quickly 
as  he  could  the  prefect  said : 

—  We  must  pack  off  to  Brother  Michael  because  we 
have  the  collywobbles ! 

He  was  very  decent  to  say  that.  That  was  all  to  make 
him  laugh.  But  he  could  not  laugh  because  his  cheeks 
and  lips  were  all  shivery:  and  then  the  prefect  had  to 
laugh  by  himself. 

The  prefect  cried : 

—  Quick  march !     Hayf oot !     Strawf oot ! 

They  went  together  down  the  staircase  and  along  the 
corridor  and  past  the  bath.  As  he  passed  the  door  he 
remembered  with  a  vague  fear  the  warm  turf -coloured 
bogwater,  the  warm  moist  air,  the  noise  of  plunges,  the 
smell  of  the  towels,  like  medicine. 

Brother  Michael  was  standing  at  the  door  of  the  in- 
firmary and  from  the  door  of  the  dark  cabinet  on  his 
right  came  a  smell  like  medicine.  That  came  from  the 
bottles  on  the  shelves.  The  prefect  spoke  to  Brother 
Michael  and  Brother  Michael  answered  and  called  the 
prefect  sir.  He  had  reddish  hair  mixed  with  grey  and  a 
queer  look.  It  was  queer  that  he  would  always  be  a 
brother.  It  was  queer  too  that  you  could  not  call  him 
sir  because  he  was  a  brother  and  had  a  different  kind  of 
look.  Was  he  not  holy  enough  or  why  could  he  not 
patch  up  on  the  others  ? 

[20] 


There  were  two  beds  in  the  room  and  in  one  bed  there 
was,  a  fellow :  and  when  they  went  in  he  called  out : 

—  Hello !    It 's  young  Dedalus !    "What 's  up  ?    . 

—  The  sky  is  up,  Brother  Michael  said. 

He  was  a  fellow  out  of  the  third  of  grammar  and,  while 
Stephen  was  undressing,  he  asked  Brother  Michael  to 
bring  him  a  round  of  buttered  toast. 

—  Ah,  do!  he  said. 

—  Butter  you  up!  said  Brother  Michael.  You'll  get 
your  walking  papers  in  the  morning  when  the  doctor 
comes. 

—  Will  I?  the  fellow  said.     I'm  not  well  yet. 
Brother  Michael  repeated : 

—  You'll  get  your  walking  papers.     I  tell  you. 

He  bent  down  to  rake  the  fire.  He  had  a  long  back 
like  the  long  back  of  a  tramhorse.  He  shook  the  poker 
gravely  and  nodded  his  head  at  the  fellow  out  of  third  of 
grammar. 

Then  Brother  Michael  went  away  and  after  a  while  the 
fellow  out  of  third  of  grammar  turned  in  towards  the 
wall  and  fell  asleep. 

That  was  the  infirmary.  He  was  sick  then.  Had  they 
written  home  to  tell  his  mother  and  father?  But  it 
would  be  quicker  for  one  of  the  priests  to  go  himself  to 
tell  them.  Or  he  would  write  a  letter  for  the  priest  to 
bring. 

Dear  Mother, 

I  am  sick.     I  want  to  go  home.    Please  come  and 
take  me  home.     I  am  in  the  infirmary. 

Your  fond  son, 

Stephen 

[21] 


How  far  away  they  were!  There  was  cold  sunlight 
outside  the  window.  He  wondered  if  he  would  die. 
You  could  die  just  the  same  on  a  sunny  day.  He  might 
die  before  his  mother  came.  Then  he  would  have  a  dead 
mass  in  the  chapel  like  the  way  the  fellows  had  told  him 
it  was  when  Little  had  died.  All  the  fellows  would  be 
at  the  mass,  dressed  in  black,  all  with  sad  faces.  Wells 
too  would  be  there  but  no  fellow  would  look  at  him. 
The  rector  would  be  there  in  a  cope  of  black  and  gold 
and  there  would  be  tall  yellow  candles  on  the  altar  and 
round  the  catafalque.  And  they  would  carry  the  coffin 
out  of  the  chapel  slowly  and  he  would  be  buried  in  the 
little  graveyard  of  the  community  off  the  main  avenue 
of  limes.  And  Wells  would  be  sorry  then  for  what  he 
had  done.    And  the  bell  would  toll  slowly. 

He  could  hear  the  tolling.  He  said  over  to  himself  the 
song  that  Brigid  had  taught  him. 

Dingdong!    The  castle  belli 
Farewell,  my  mother! 
Bury  me  in  the  old  churchyard 
Beside  my  eldest  brother. 
My  coffin  shall  be  black, 
Six  angels  at  my  back, 
Two  to  sing  and  two  to  pray 
And  two  to  carry  my  soul  away. 

How  beautiful  and  sad  that  was !  How  beautiful  the 
words  were  where  they  said  Bury  me  in  the  old  church- 
yard! A  tremor  passed  over  his  body.  How  sad  and 
how  beautiful!  He  wanted  to  cry  quietly  but  not  for 
himself :  for  the  words,  so  beautiful  and  sad,  like  music, 
The  bell!    The  bell!    Farewell!    0  farewell! 

[22J 


The  cold  sunlight  was  weaker  and  Brother  Michael  was 
standing  at  his  bedside  with  a  bowl  of  beeftea.  He  was 
glad  for  his  mouth  was  hot  and  dry.  He  could  hear  them 
playing  in  the  playgrounds.  And  the  day  was  going  on 
in  the  college  just  as  if  he  were  there. 

Then  Brother  Michael  was  going  away  and  the  fellow 
out  of  third  of  grammar  told  him  to  be  sure  and  come 
back  and  tell  him  all  the  news  in  the  paper.  He  told 
Stephen  that  his  name  was  Athy  and  that  his  father  kept 
a  lot  of  racehorses  that  were  spiffing  jumpers  and  that 
his  father  would  give  a  good  tip  to  Brother  Michael  any 
time  he  wanted  it  because  Brother  Michael  was  very  de- 
cent and  always  told  him  the  news  out  of  the  paper  they 
got  every  day  up  in  the  castle.  There  was  every  kind  of 
news  in  the  paper:  accidents,  shipwrecks,  sports  and 
politics. 

—  Now  it  is  all  about  politics  in  the  papers,  he  said. 
Do  your  people  talk  about  that  too? 

—  Yes,  Stephen  said. 

—  Mine  too,  he  said. 

Then  he  thought  for  a  moment  and  said: 

—  You  have  a  queer  name,  Dedalus,  and  I  have  a  queer 
name  too,  Athy.  My  name  is  the  name  of  a  town.  Your 
name  is  like  Latin. 

Then  he  asked : 

—  Are  you  good  at  riddles? 
Stephen  answered: 

—  Not  very  good. 
Then  he  said : 

—  Can  you  answer  me  this  one  ?  Why  is  the  county 
of  Kildare  like  the  leg  of  a  fellow's  breeches? 

Stephen  thought  what  could  be  the  answer  and  then 
^aid: 

[23] 


—  I  give  it  up. 

—  Because  there  is  a  thigh  in  it,  he  said.  Do  you  see 
the  joke  ?  Athy  is  the  town  in  the  county  Kildare,  and 
a  thigh  is  the  other  thigh. 

—  0,  I  see,  Stephen  said. 

—  That's  an  old  riddle,  he  said. 
After  a  moment  he  said: 

—  I  say! 

—  What?  asked  Stephen. 

—  You  know,  he  said,  you  can  ask  that  riddle  another 
way. 

—  Can  you?  said  Stephen. 

—  The  same  riddle,  he  said.  Do  you  know  the  other 
way  to  ask  it? 

—  No,  said  Stephen. 

—  Can  you  not  think  of  the  other  way?  he  said. 

He  looked  at  Stephen  over  the  bedclothes  as  he  spoke. 
Then  he  lay  back  on  the  pillow  and  said : 

—  There  is  another  way  but  I  won't  tell  you  what  it  is. 

Why  did  he  not  tell  it  ?  His  father,  who  kept  the  race- 
horses, must  be  a  magistrate  too  like  Saurin's  father  and 
Nasty  Koche's  father.  He  thought  of  his  own  father,  of 
how  he  sang  songs  while  his  mother  played  and  of  how 
he  always  gave  him  a  shilling  when  he  asked  for  sixpence 
and  he  felt  sorry  for  him  that  he  was  not  a  magistrate 
like  the  other  boys'  fathers.  Then  why  was  he  sent  to 
that  place  with  them  ?  But  his  father  had  told  him  that 
he  would  be  no  stranger  there  because  his  granduncle  had 
presented  an  address  to  the  Liberator  there  fifty  years 
before.  You  could  know  the  people  of  that  time  by  their 
old  dress.  It  seemed  to  him  a  solemn  time ;  and  he  won- 
dered if  that  was  the  time  when  the  fellows  in  Clongowes 
wore  blue  coats  with  brass  buttons  and  yellow  waistcoats 

[24] 


and  caps  of  rabbit-skin  and  drank  beer  like  grownup 
people  and  kept  greyhounds  of  their  own  to  course  the 
hares  with. 

He  looked  at  the  window  and  saw  that  the  daylight 
had  grown  weaker.  There  would  be  cloudy  grey  light 
over  the  playgrounds.  There  was  no  noise  on  the  play- 
grounds. The  class  must  be  doing  the  themes  or  per- 
haps Father  Arnall  was  reading  out  of  the  book. 

It  was  queer  that  they  had  not  given  him  any  medi- 
cine. Perhaps  Brother  Michael  would  bring  it  back 
when  he  came.  They  said  you  got  stinking  stuff  to 
drink  when  you  were  in  the  infirmary.  But  he  felt  bet- 
ter now  th^n  before.  It  would  be  nice  getting  better 
slowly.  You  could  get  a  book  then.  There  was  a  book 
in  the  library  about  Holland.  There  were  lovely  foreign 
names  in  it  and  pictures  of  strange-looking  cities  and 
ships.     It  made  you  feel  so  happy. 

How  pale  the  light  was  at  the  window !  But  that  was 
nice.  The  fire  rose  and  fell  on  the  wall.  It  was  like 
waves.  Someone  had  put  coal  on  and  he  heard  voices. 
They  were  talking.  It  was  the  noise  of  the  waves.  Or 
the  waves  were  talking  among  themselves  as  they  rose 
and  fell. 

He  saw  the  sea  of  waves,  long  dark  waves  rising  and 
falling,  dark  under  the  moonless  night.  A  tiny  light 
twinkled  at  the  pierhead  where  the  ship  was  entering: 
and  he  saw  a  multitude  of  people  gathered  by  the  waters' 
edge  to  see  the  ship  that  was  entering  their  harbour.  A 
tall  man  stood  on  the  deck,  looking  out  towards  the  flat 
dark  land :  and  by  the  light  at  the  pierhead  he  saw  his 
face,  the  sorrowful  face  of  Brother  Michael. 

He  saw  him  lift  his  hand  towards  the  people  and 
heard  him  say  in  a  loud  voice  of  sorrow  over  the  waters : 

[25] 


—  He  is  dead.    We  saw  him  lying  upon  the  catafalque. 
A  wail  of  sorrow  went  up  from  the  people. 

—  Parnell!     Parnell!     He  is  dead! 

They  fell  upon  their  knees,  moaning  in  sorrow. 

And  he  saw  Dante  in  a  maroon  velvet  dress  and  with 
a  green  velvet  mantle  hanging  from  her  shoulders  walk- 
ing proudly  and  silently  past  the  people  who  knelt  by 
the  waters'  edge. 

A  great  fire,  banked  high  and  red,  flamed  in  the  grate 
and  under  the  ivy  twined  branches  of  the  chandelier  the 
Christmas  table  was  spread.  They  had  come  home  a  lit- 
tle late  and  still  dinner  was  not  ready :  but  it  would  be 
ready  in  a  jiffy,  his  mother  had  said.  They  were  waiting 
for  the  door  to  open  and  for  the  servants  to  come  in, 
holding  the  big  dishes  covered  with  their  heavy  metal 
covers. 

All  were  waiting :  Uncle  Charles,  who  sat  far  away  in 
the  shadow  of  the  window,  Dante  and  Mr  Casey,  who  sat 
in  the  easy  chairs  at  either  side  of  the  hearth,  Stephen, 
seated  on  a  chair  between  them,  his  feet  resting  on  the 
toasted  boss.  Mr  Dedalus  looked  at  himself  in  the  pier- 
glass  above  the  mantelpiece,  waxed  out  his  moustache 
ends  and  then,  parting  his  coat  tails,  stood  with  his  back 
to  the  glowing  fire :  and  still  from  time  to  time  he  with- 
drew a  hand  from  his  coat  tail  to  wax  out  one  of  his 
moustache  ends.  Mr  Casey  leaned  his  head  to  one  side 
and,  smiling,  tapped  the  gland  of  his  neck  with  his  fin- 
gers. And  Stephen  smiled  too  for  he  knew  now  that  it 
was  not  true  that  Mr  Casey  had  a  purse  of  silver  in  his 
throat.  He  smiled  to  think  how  the  silvery  noise  which 
Mr  Casey  used  to  make  had  deceived  him.  And  when 
he  had  tried  to  open  Mr  Casey's  hand  to  see  if  the  purse 

[26] 


of  silver  was  hidden  there  he  had  seen  that  the  fingers 
could  not  be  straightened  out:  and  Mr  Casey  had  told 
him  that  he  had  got  those  three  cramped  fingers  making 
a  birthday  present  for  Queen  Victoria. 

Mr  Casey  tapped  the  gland  of  his  neck  and  smiled  at 
Stephen  with  sleepy  eyes :  and  Mr  Dedalus  said  to  him : 

—  Yes.  Well  now,  that's  all  right.  0,  we  had  a  good 
walk,  hadn't  we,  John?  Yes  ...  I  wonder  if 
there's  any  likelihood  of  dinner  this  evening.  Yes. 
.  .  .  0,  well  now,  we  got  a  good  breath  of  ozone 
round  the  Head  today.    Ay,  bedad. 

He  turned  to  Dante  and  said : 

—  You  didn't  stir  out  at  all,  Mrs  Riordan? 
Dante  frowned  and  said  shortly : 

—  No. 

Mr  Dedalus  dropped  his  coat  tails  and  went  over  to 
the  sideboard.  He  brought  forth  a  great  stone  jar  of 
whisky  from  the  locker  and  filled  the  decanter  slowly, 
bending  now  and  then  to  see  how  much  he  had  poured 
in.  Then  replacing  the  jar  in  the  locker  he  poured  a 
little  of  the  whisky  into  two  glasses,  added  a  little  water 
and  came  back  with  them  to  the  fireplace. 

—  A  thimbleful,  John,  he  said,  just  to  whet  your 
appetite. 

Mr  Casey  took  the  glass,  drank,  and  placed  it  near 
him  on  the  mantelpiece.     Then  he  said : 

—  Well,  I  can't  help  thinking  of  our  friend  Christo- 
pher manufacturing     .     .     . 

He  broke  into  a  fit  of  laughter  and  coughing  and 
added : 

— .  .  .  manufacturing  that  champagne  for  those 
fellows. 

Mr  Dedalus  laughed  loudly. 
[27] 


—  Is  it  Christy?  he  said.  There's  more  cunning  in 
one  of  those  warts  on  his  bald  head  than  in  a  pack  of 
jack  foxes. 

He  inclined  his  head,  closed  his  eyes,  and,  licking  his 
lips  profusely,  began  to  speak  with  the  voice  of  the 
hotel  keeper. 

—  And  he  has  such  a  soft  mouth  when  he's  speaking 
to  you,  don't  you  know.  He's  very  moist  and  watery 
about  the  dewlaps,  God  bless  him. 

Mr  Casey  was  still  struggling  through  his  fit  of  cough- 
ing and  laughter.  Stephen,  seeing  and  hearing  the  hotel 
keeper  through  his  father's  face  and  voice,  laughed. 

Mr  Dedalus  put  up  his  eyeglass  and,  staring  down  at 
him,  said  quietly  and  kindly: 

—  What  are  you  laughing  at,  you  little  puppy,  you  ? 
The  servants  entered  and  placed  the  dishes  on  the 

table.    Mrs  Dedalus  followed  and  the  places  were  ar- 
ranged. 

—  Sit  over,  she  said. 

Mr  Dedalus  went  to  the  end  of  the  table  and  said : 

—  Now,  Mrs  Kiordan,  sit  over.  John,  sit  you  down, 
my  hearty. 

He  looked  round  to  where  Uncle  Charles  sat  and  said : 

—  Now  then,  sir,  there's  a  bird  here  waiting  for  you. 
"When  all  had  taken  their  seats  he  laid  his  hand  on  the 

cover  and  then  said  quickly,  withdrawing  it : 

—  Now,  Stephen. 

Stephen  stood  up  in  his  place  to  say  the  grace  before 
meals : 

Bless  us,  O  Lord,  and  these  Thy  gifts  which  through 
Thy  bounty  we  are  about  to  receive  through  Christ  our 
Lord.    Amen. 

[28] 


All  blessed  themselves  and  Mr  Dedalus  with  a  sigh  of 
pleasure  lifted  from  the  dish  the  heavy  cover  pearled 
around  the  edge  with  glistening  drops. 

Stephen  looked  at  the  plump  turkey  which  had  lain, 
trussed  and  skewered,  on  the  kitchen  table.  He  knew 
that  his  father  had  paid  a  guinea  for  it  in  Dunn's  of 
D  'Olier  Street  and  that  the  man  had  prodded  it  often  at 
the  breastbone  to  show  how  good  it  was :  and  he  remem- 
bered the  man's  voice  when  he  had  said : 

—  Take  that  one,  sir.    That's  the  real  Ally  Daly. 
Why  did  Mr  Barrett  in  Clongowes  call  his  pandy- 

bat  a  turkey?  But  Clongowes  was  far  away:  and  the 
warm  heavy  smell  of  turkey  and  ham  and  celery  rose 
from  the  plates  and  dishes  and  the  great  fire  was  banked 
high  and  red  in  the  grate  and  the  green  ivy  and  red 
holly  made  you  feel  so  happy  and  when  dinner  was  ended 
the  big  plum  pudding  would  be  carried  in,  studded  with 
peeled  almonds  and  sprigs  of  holly,  with  bluish  fire 
running  around  it  and  a  little  green  flag  flying  from  the 
top. 

It  was  his  first  Christmas  dinner  and  he  thought  of 
his  little  brothers  and  sisters  who  were  waiting  in  the 
nursery,  as  he  had  often  waited,  till  the  pudding  came. 
The  deep  low  collar  and  the  Eton  jacket  made  him  feel 
queer  and  oldish :  and  that  morning  when  his  mother  had 
brought  him  down  to  the  parlour,  dressed  for  mass,  his 
father  had  cried.  That  was  because  he  was  thinking 
of  his  own  father.  And  Uncle  Charles  had  said  so 
too. 

Mr  Dedalus  covered  the  dish  and  began  to  eat  hun- 
grily.    Then  he  said : 

—  Poor  old  Christy,  he's  nearly  lopsided  now  with 
roguery. 

[29] 


—  Simon,  said  Mrs  Dedalus,  you  haven't  given  Mrs 
Riordan  any  sauce. 

Mr  Dedalus  seized  the  saueeboat. 

—  Haven't  I?  he  cried.  Mrs  Riordan,  pity  the  poor 
blind. 

Dante  covered  her  plate  with  her  hands  and  said : 

—  No,  thanks. 

Mr  Dedalus  turned  to  Uncle  Charles. 

—  How  are  you  off,  sir? 

—  Right  as  the  mail,  Simon. 

—  You,  Uohn? 

—  I'm  all  right.    Go  on  yourself. 

—  Mary?  Here,  Stephen,  here's  something  to  make 
your  hair  curl. 

He  poured  sauce  freely  over  Stephen's  plate  and  set 
the  boat  again  on  the  table.  Then  he  asked  Uncle 
Charles  was  it  tender.  Uncle  Charles  could  not  speak 
because  his  mouth  was  full  but  he  nodded  that  it  was. 

—  That  was  a  good  answer  our  friend  made  to  the 
canon.    What  ?  said  Mr  Dedalus. 

—  I  didn't  think  he  had  that  much  in  him,  said  Mr 
Casey. 

—  I^ll  pay  your  dues,  father,  when  you  cease  turning 
the  house  of  God  into  a  polling-'booth, 

—  A  nice  answer,  said  Dante,  for  any  man  calling 
himself  a  catholic  to  give  to  his  priest. 

—  They  have  only  themselves  to  blame,  said  Mr 
Dedalus  suavely.  If  they  took  a  fool's  advice  they 
would  confine  their  attention  to  religion. 

—  It  is  religion,  Dante  said.  They  are  doing  their 
duty  in  warning  the  people. 

—  We  go  to  the  house  of  God,  Mr  Casey  said,  in  all 

[30] 


humility  to  pray  to  our  Maker  and  not  to  hear  election 
addresses. 

—  It  is  religion,  Dante  said  again.  They  are  right. 
They  must  direct  their  flocks. 

—  And  preach  politics  from  the  altar,  is  it  ?  asked  Mr 
Dedalus. 

—  Certainly,  said  Dante.  It  is  a  question  of  public 
morality.  A  priest  would  not  be  a  priest  if  he  did  not 
tell  his  flock  what  is  right  and  what  is  wrong. 

Mrs  Dedalus  laid  down  her  knife  and  fork,  saying : 

—  For  pity  sake  and  for  pity  sake  let  us  have  no  po- 
litical discussion  on  this  day  of  all  days  in  the  year. 

—  Quite  right,  ma'am,  said  Uncle  Charles.  Now 
Simon,  that's  quite  enough  now.    Not  another  word  now. 

—  Yes,  yes,  said  Mr  Dedalus  quickly. 
He  uncovered  the  dish  boldly  and  said : 

—  Now  then,  who's  for  more  turkey? 
Nobody  answered.    Dante  said : 

—  Nice  language  for  any  catholic  to  use ! 

—  Mrs  Riordan,  I  appeal  to  you,  said  Mrs  Dedalus, 
to  let  the  matter  drop  now. 

Dante  turned  on  her  and  said: 

—  And  am  I  to  sit  here  and  listen  to  the  pastors  of  my 
church  being  flouted? 

—  Nobody  is  saying  a  word  against  them,  said  Mr 
Dedalus,  so  long  as  they  don't  meddle  in  politics. 

—  The  bishops  and  priests  of  Ireland  have  spoken,  said 
Dante,  and  they  must  be  obeyed. 

—  Let  them  leave  politics  alone,  said  Mr  Casey ;  or  the 
people  may  leave  their  church  alone. 

—  You  hear  ?  said  Dante  turning  to  Mrs  Dedalus. 

—  Mr  Casey !  Simon !  said  Mrs  Dedalus,  let  it  end  now, 

[31] 


—  Too  bad !    Too  bad !  said  Uncle  Charles. 

—  What?  cried  Mr  Dedalus.  Were  we  to  desert  him 
at  the  bidding  of  the  English  people  ? 

.  —  He  was  no  longer  worthy  to  lead,  said  Dante.    He 
was  a  public  sinner. 

—  We  are  all  sinners  and  black  sinners,  said  Mr  Casey 
coldly. 

—  Woe  be  to  the  man  by  whom  the  scandal  cometh! 
said  Mrs  Riordan.  It  would  be  better  for  him  that  a 
millstone  were  tied  about  his  neck  and  that  he  were  cast 
into  the  depths  of  the  sea  rather  than  that  he  should 
scandalise  one  of  these,  my  least  little  ones.  That  is  the 
language  of  the  Holy  Ghost. 

—  And  very  bad  language  if  you  ask  me,  said  Mr 
Dedalus  coolly. 

—  Simon !  Simon !  said  Uncle  Charles.     The  boy. 

—  Yes,  yes,  said  Mr  Dedalus.  I  me^t  about  the 
.  .  .  I  was  thinking  about  the  bad  language  of  that 
railway  porter.  Well  now,  that's  all  right.  Here, 
Stephen,  show  me  your  plate,  old  chap.  Eat  away  now. 
Here. 

He  heaped  up  the  food  on  Stephen's  plate  and  served 
Uncle  Charles  and  Mr  Casey  to  large  pieces  of  turkey 
and  splashes  of  sauce.  Mrs  Dedalus  was  eating  little  and 
Dante  sat  with  her  hands  in  her  lap.  She  was  red  in  the 
face.  Mr  Dedalus  rooted  with  the  carvers  at  the  end  of 
the  dish  and  said : 

—  There's  a  tasty  bit  here  we  call  the  pope's  nose.  If 
any  lady  or  gentleman    .     .    . 

He  held  a  piece  of  fowl  up  on  the  prong  of  the  carv- 
ingfork.  Nobody  spoke.  He  put  it  on  his  own  plate, 
saying: 

—  Well,  you  can't  say  but  you  were  asked.    I  think  I 

[32] 


had  better  eat  it  myself  because  I'm  not  well  in  my 
health  lately. 

He  winked  at  Stephen  and,  replacing  the  dish-cover, 
began  to  eat  again. 

There  was  a  silence  while  he  ate.     Then  he  said : 

—  Well  now,  the  day  kept  up  fine  after  all.  There 
were  plenty  of  strangers  down  too. 

Nobody  spoke.     He  said  again : 

—  I  think  there  were  more  strangers  down  than  last 
Christmas. 

He  looked  round  at  the  others  whose  faces  were  bent 
towards  their  plates  and,  receiving  no  reply,  waited  for 
a  moment  and  said  bitterly: 

—  Well,  my  Christmas  dinner  has  been  spoiled  any- 
how. 

—  There  could  be  neither  luck  nor  grace,  Dante  said, 
in  a  house  where  there  is  no  respect  for  the  pastors  of 
the  church. 

Mr  Dedalus  threw  his  knife  and  fork  noisily  on  his 
plate. 

—  Eespect !  he  said.  Is  it  for  Billy  with  the  lip  or  for 
the  tub  of  guts  up  in  Armagh  ?     Eespect ! 

—  Princes  of  the  church,  said  Mr  Casey  with  slow 
scorn. 

—  Lord  Leitrim's  coachman,  yes,  said  Mr  Dedalus. 

—  They  are  the  Lord's  anointed,  Dante  said.  They 
are  an  honour  to  their  country. 

—  Tub  of  guts,  said  Mr  Dedalus  coarsely.  He  has  a 
handsome  face,  mind  you,  in  repose.  You  should  see 
that  fellow  lapping  up  his  bacon  and  cabbage  of  a  cold 
winter's  day.     0  Johnny! 

He  twisted  his  features  into  a  grimace  of  heavy  bes- 
tiality and  made  a  lapping  noise  with  his  lips. 

[33] 


—  E^ally,  Simon,  you  should  not  speak  that  way  be- 
fore Stephen.     It's  not  right. 

—  O,  he'll  remember  all  this  when  he  grows  up,  said 
Dante  hotly  —  the  language  he  heard  against  God  and 
religion  and  priests  in  his  own  home. 

—  Let  him  remember  too,  cried  Mr  Casey  to  her  from 
across  the  table,  the  language  with  which  the  priests  and 
the  priests'  pawns  broke  Parnell's  heart  and  hounded 
him  into  his  grave.  Let  him  remember  that  too  when  he 
grows  up. 

—  Sons  of  bitches !  cried  Mr  Dedalus.  When  he  was 
down  they  turned  on  him  to  betray  him  and  rend  him 
like  rats  in  a  sewer.  Lowlived  dogs !  And  they  look  it ! 
By  Christ,  they  look  it! 

—  They  behaved  rightly,  cried  Dante.  They  obeyed 
their  bishops  and  their  priests.     Honour  to  them ! 

—  Well,  it  is  perfectly  dreadful  to  say  that  not  even 
for  one  day  in  the  year,  said  Mrs  Dedalus,  can  we  be 
free  from  these  dreadful  disputes ! 

Uncle  Charles  raised  his  hands  mildly  and  said : 

—  Come  now,  come  now,  come  now !  Can  we  not  have 
our  opinions  whatever  they  are  without  this  bad  temper 
and  this  bad  language?     It  is  too  bad  surely. 

Mrs  Dedalus  spoke  to  Dante  in  a  low  voice  but  Dante 
said  loudly: 

—  I  will  not  say  nothing.  I  will  defend  my  church 
and  my  religion  when  it  is  insulted  and  spit  on  by  rene- 
gade catholics. 

Mr  Casey  pushed  his  plate  rudely  into  the  middle  of 
the  table  and,  resting  his  elbows  before  him,  said  in  a 
hoarse  voice  to  his  host : 

—  Tell  me,  did  I  tell  you  that  story  about  a  very  fa- 
mous spit? 

[34] 


—  You  did  not,  John,  said  Mr  Dedalus. 

—  Why  then,  said  Mr  Casey,  it  is  a  most  instructive 
story.  It  happened  not  long  ago  in  the  county  Wicklow 
where  we  are  now. 

He  broke  off  and,  turning  towards  Dante,  said  with 
quiet  indignation: 

—  And  I  may  tell  you,  ma'am,  that  I,  if  you  mean  me, 
am  no  renegade  catholic.  I  am  a  catholic  as  my  father 
was  and  his  father  before  him  and  his  father  before  him 
again  when  we  gave  up  our  lives  rather  than  sell  our 
faith. 

—  The  more  shame  to  you  now,  Dante  said,  to  speak 
as  you  do. 

—  The  story,  John,  said  Mr  Dedalus  smiling.  Let  us 
have  the  story  anyhow. 

—  Catholic  indeed!  repeated  Dante  ironically.  The 
blackest  protestant  in  the  land  would  not  speak  the  lan- 
guage I  have  heard  this  evening. 

Mr  Dedalus  began  to  sway  his  head  to  and  fro,  croon- 
ing like  a  country  singer. 

—  I  am  no  protestant,  I  tell  you  again,  said  Mr  Casey 
flushing. 

Mr  Dedalus,  still  crooning  and  swajdng  his  head,  began 
to  sing  in  a  grunting  nasal  tone : 

O,  come  all  you  Roman  catholics 
That  never  went  to  mass. 

He  took  up  his  knife  and  fork  again  in  good  humour 
and  set  to  eating,  saying  to  Mr  Casey : 

—  Let  us  have  the  story,  John.  It  will  help  us  to 
digest. 

Stephen  looked  with  affection  at  Mr  Casey's  face  which 
[35] 


stared  across  the  table  over  his  joined  hands.  He  liked 
to  sit  near  him  at  the  fire,  Rooking  up  at  his  dark  fierce 
face.  But  his  dark  eyes  were  never  fierce  and  his  slow 
voice  was  good  to  listen  to.  But  why  was  he  then 
against  the  priests?  Because  Dante  must  be  right  then. 
But  he  had  heard  his  father  say  that  she  was  a  spoiled 
nun  and  that  she  had  come  out  of  the  convent  in  the 
Alleghanies  when  her  brother  had  got  the  money  from 
the  savages  for  the  trinkets  and  the  chainies.  Perhaps 
that  made  her  severe  against  Parnell.  And  she  did  not 
like  him  to  play  with  Eileen  because  Eileen  was  a  protes- 
tant  and  when  she  was  young  she  knew  children  that  used 
to  play  with  protestants  and  the  protestants  used  to 
make  fun  of  the  litany  of  the  Blessed  Virgin.  Tower  of 
Ivory,  they  used  to  say,  House  of  Gold!  How  could  a 
woman  be  a  tower, of  ivory  or  a  house  of  gold?  Who 
was  right  then  ?  And  he  remembered  the  evening  in  the 
infirmary  in  Clongowes,  the  dark  waters,  the  light  at  the 
pierhead  and  the  moan  of  sorrow  from  the  people  when 
they  had  heard. 

Eileen  had  long  white  hands.  One  evening  when  play- 
ing tig  she  had  put  her  hands  over  his  eyes:  long  and 
white  and  thin  and  cold  and  soft.  That  was  ivory:  a 
cold  white  thing.  That  was  the  meaning  of  Tower  of 
Ivory. 

—  The  story  is  very  short  and  sweet,  Mr  Casey  said. 
It  was  one  day  down  in  Arklow,  a  cold  bitter  day,  not 
long  before  the  chief  died.  May  God  have  mercy  on 
him! 

He  closed  his  eyes  wearily  and  paused.  Mr  Dedalus 
took  a  bone  from  his  plate  and  tore  some  meat  from  it 
with  his  teeth,  saying: 

—  Before  he  was  killed,  you  mean, 

[36] 


Mr  Casey  opened  his  eyes,  sighed  and  went  on : 

—  He  was  down  in  Arklow  one  day.  We  were  down 
there  at  a  meeting  and  after  the  meeting  w£is  over  we 
had  to  make  our  way  to  the  railway  station  through  the 
crowd.  Such  booing  and  baaing,  man,  you  never  heard. 
They  called  us  all  the  names  in  the  world.  Well  there 
was  one  old  lady,  and  a  drunken  old  harridan  she  was 
surely,  that  paid  all  her  attention  to  me.  She  kept 
dancing  along  beside  me  in  the  mud  bawling  and  scream- 
ing into  my  face:  Priest  hunter!  The  Paris  Funds! 
Mr  Fox!    Kitty  O'Shea! 

—  And  what  did  you  do,  John  ?  asked  Mr  Dedalus. 

—  I  let  her  bawl  away,  said  Mr.  Casey.  It  was  a  cold 
day  and  to  keep  up  my  heart  I  had  (saving  your  pres- 
ence, ma'am)  a  quid  of  Tullamore  in  my  mouth  and  sure 
I  couldn't  say  a  word  in  any  case  because  my  mouth 
was  full  of  tobacco  juice. 

—  Well,  John? 

—  Well.  I  let  her  bawl  away,  to  her  heart's  content, 
Kitty  O'Shea  and  the  rest  of  it  till  at  last  she  called  that 
lady  a  name  that  I  won't  sully  this  Christmas  board  nor 
your  ears,  ma'am,  nor  my  own  lips  by  repeating. 

He  paused.  Mr  Dedalus,  lifting  his  head  from  the 
bone,  asked: 

—  And  what  did  you  do,  John? 

—  Do !  said  Mr  Casey.  She  stuck  her  ugly  old  face  up 
at  me  when  she  said  it  and  I  had  my  mouth  full  of  to- 
bacco juice.  I  bent  down  to  her  and  Phth!  says  I  to 
her  like  that. 

He  turned  aside  and  made  the  act  of  spitting. 

—  Phth !  says  I  to  her  like  that,  right  into  her  eye. 
He  clapped  a  hand  to  his  eye  and  gave  a  hoarse  scream 

of  pain. 

[37] 


—  O  Jesus,  Mary  and  Joseph!  says  she.  I'm  ilinded! 
I'm  blinded  and  drownded! 

He  stopped  in  a  fit  of  coughing  and  laughter,  re- 
peating : 

—  Pm  blinded  entirely. 

Mr  Dedalus  laughed  loudly  and  lay  back  in  his  chair 
while  Uncle  Charles  swayed  his  head  to  and  fro. 

Dante  looked  terribly  angry  and  repeated  while  they 
laughed : 

—  Very  nice !     Ha !    Very  nice ! 

It  was  not  nice  about  the  spit  in  the  woman's  eye. 

But  what  was  the  name  the  woman  had  called  Kitty 
O'Shea  that  Mr  Casey  would  not  repeat?  He  thought 
of  Mr  Casey  walking  through  the  crowds  of  people  and 
making  speeches  from  a  wagonette.  That  was  what  he 
had  been  in  prison  for  and  he  remembered  that  one 
night  Sergeant  O'Neill  had  come  to  the  house  and  had 
stood  in  the  hall,  talking  in  a  low  voice  with  his  father 
and  chewing  nervously  at  the  chinstrap  of  his  cap.  And 
that  night  Mr  Casey  had  not  gone  to  Dublin  by  train  but 
a  car  had  come  to  the  door  and  he  had  heard  his  father 
say  something  about  the  Cabinteely  road. 

He  was  for  Ireland  and  Parnell  and  so  was  his  father : 
and  so  was  Dante  too  for  one  night  at  the  band  on  the 
esplanade  she  had  hit  a  gentleman  on  the  head  with  her 
umbrella  because  he  had  taken  off  his  hat  when  the  band 
played  God  save  the  Queen  at  the  end. 

Mr  Dedalus  gave  a  snort  of  contempt. 

—  Ah,  John,  he  said.  It  is  true  for  them.  We  are  an 
unfortunate  priestridden  race  and  always  were  and  al- 
ways will  be  till  the  end  of  the  chapter. 

Uncle  Charles  shook  his  head,  saying: 

[38] 


—  A  bad  business !    A  bad  business ! 
Mr  Dedalus  repeated : 

—  A  priestridden  Godforsaken  race ! 

He  pointed  to  the  portrait  of  his  grandfather  on  the 
wall  to  his  tight. 

—  Do  you  see  that  old  chap  up  there,  John?  he  said. 
He  was  a  good  Irishman  when  there  was  no  money  in  the 
job.  He  was  condemned  to  death  as  a  whiteboy.  But 
he  had  a  saying  about  our  clerical  friends,  that  he  would 
never  let  one  of  them  put  his  two  feet  under  his  mahog- 
any. 

Dante  broke  in  angrily: 

—  If  we  are  a  priestridden  race  we  ought  to  be  proud 
of  it!  They  are  the  apple  of  God's  eye.  Touch  them 
not,  says  Christ,  for  they  are  the  apple  of  My  eye. 

—  And  can  we  not  love  our  country  then?  asked  Mr 
Casey.  Are  we  not  to  follow  the  man  that  was  born  to 
lead  us  ? 

—  A  traitor  to  his  country !  replied  Dante.  A  traitor, 
an  adulterer!  The  priests  were  right  to  abandon  him. 
The  priests  were  always  the  true  friends  of  Ireland. 

—  Were  they,  faith?  said  Mr  Casey. 

He  threw  his  fist  on  the  table  and,  frowning  angrily, 
protrudeji  one  finger  after  another. 

—  Didn't  the  bishops  of  Ireland  betray  us  in  the  time 
of  the  union  when  Bishop  Lanigan  presented  an  address 
of  loyalty  to  the  Marquess  Cornwallis?  Didn't  the  bish- 
ops and  priests  sell  the  aspirations  of  their  country  in 
1829  in  return  for  catholic  emancipation?  Didn't  they 
denounce  the  f enian  movement  from  the  pulpit  and  in  the 
confession  box?  And  didn't  they  dishonour  the  ashes  of 
Terence  Bellew  MacManus  ? 

[39]; 


His  face  was  glowing  with  anger  and  Stephen  felt  the 
glow  rise  to  his  own  cheek  as  the  spoken  words  thrilled 
him.    Mr  Dedalus  uttered  a  guffaw  of  coarse  scorn. 

—  0,  by  God  —  he  cried  —  I  forgot  little  old  Paul 
Cullen !    Another  apple  of  God 's  eye ! 

Dante  bent  across  the  table  and  cried  to  Mr  Casey : 

—  Eight !  Eight !  They  were  always  right !  God  and 
morality  and  religion  come  first. 

Mrs  Dedalus,  seeing  her  excitement,  said  to  her : 

—  Mrs  Eiordan,  don't  excite  yourself  answering  them. 

—  God  and  religion  before  everything !  Dante  cried. 
God  and  religion  before  the  world ! 

Mr  Casey  raised  his  clenched  fist  and  brought  it  down 
on  the  table  with  a  crash. 

—  Very  well,  then,  he  shouted  hoarsely,  if  it  comes  to 
that,  no  God  for  Ireland ! 

—  John !  John !  cried  Mr  Dedalus,  seizing  his  guest  by 
the  coat  sleeve. 

Dante  stared  across  the  table,  her  cheeks  shaking.  Mr 
Casey  struggled  up  from  his  chair  and  bent  across  the 
table  towards  her,  scraping  the  air  from  before  his  eyes 
with  one  hand  as  though  he  were  tearing  aside  a  cobweb. 

—  No  God  for  Ireland!  he  cried.  We  have  had  too 
much  God  in  Ireland.    Away  with  God ! 

—  Blasphemer!  Devil!  screamed  Dante,  starting  to 
her  feet  and  almost  spitting  in  his  face. 

Uncle  Charles  and  Mr  Dedalus  pulled  Mr  Casey  back 
into  his  chair  again,  talking  to  him  from  both  sides  rea- 
sonably. He  stared  before  him  out  of  his  ^ark  flaming 
eyes,  repeating: 

—  Away  with  God,  I  say ! 

Dante  shoved  her  chair  violently  aside  and  left  the 
table,  upsetting  her  napkinring  which  rolled  slowly  along 

[40] 


the  carpet  and  came  to  rest  against  the  foot  of  an  easy- 
chair.  Mrs  Dedalus  rose  quickly  and  followed  her  to- 
wards the  door.  At  the  door  Dante  turned  round  vio- 
lently and  shouted  down  the  room,  her  cheeks  flushed 
and  quivering  with  rage : 

—  Devil  out  of  hell !    We  won !    We  crushed  him  to 
death !    Fiend ! 

The  door  slammed  behind  her. 

Mr  Casey,  freeing  his  arms  from  his  holders,  suddenly 
bowed  his  head  on  his  hands  with  a  sob  of  pain. 

—  Poor  Parnell !  he  cried  loudly.    My  dead  king ! 
He  sobbed  loudly  and  bitterly. 

Stephen,  raising  his  terrorstricken  face,  saw  that  his 
father's  eyes  were  full  of  tears. 


The  fellows  talked  together  in  little  groups. 
One  fellow  said : 

—  They  were  caught  near  the  Hill  of  Lyons. 

—  Who  caught  them  ? 

—  Mr  Gleeson  and  the  minister.    They  were  on  a  car. 
The  same  fellow  added : 

—  A  fellow  in  the  higher  line  told  me. 
Fleming  asked: 

—  But  why  did  they  run  away,  tell  us  ? 

—  I  know  why,  Cecil  Thunder  said.    Because  they  had 
fecked  cash  out  of  the  rector's  room. 

—  Who  fecked  it? 

—  Kickham's  brother.    And  they  all  went  shares  in  it. 
But  that  was  stealing.     How  could  they  have  done 

that? 

—  A  fat  lot  you  know  about  it,  Thunder !  Wells  said. 
I  know  why  they  scut. 

[41] 


—  Tell  us  why. 

—  I  was  told  not  to,  Wells  said. 

—  0,  go  on,  Wells,  all  said.  You  might  tell  us.  We 
won't  let  it  out. 

Stephen  bent  forward  his  head  to  hear.  Wells  looked 
round  to  see  if  anyone  was  coming.  Then  he  said  se- 
cretly : 

—  You  know  the  altar  wine  they  keep  in  the  press  in 
the  sacristy? 

—  Yes. 

—  Well,  they  drank  that  and  it  was.  found  out  who  did 
it  by  the  smell.  And  that's  why  they  ran  away,  if  you 
want  to  know. 

And  the  fellow  who  had  spoken  first  said : 

—  Yes,  that's  what  I  heard  too  from  the  fellow  in  the 
higher  line. 

The  fellows  were  all  silent.  Stephen  stood  among 
them,  afraid  to  speak,  listening.  A  faint  sickness  of 
awe  made  him  feel  weak.  How  could  they  have  done 
that?  He  thought  of  the  dark  silent  sacristy.  There 
were  dark  wooden  presses  there  where  the  crimped  sur- 
plices lay  quietly  folded.  It  was  not  the  chapel  but  still 
you  had  to  speak  under  your  breath.  It  was  a  holy 
place.  He  remembered  the  summer  evening  he  had  been 
there  to  be  dressed  as  boat-bearer,  the  evening  of  the 
procession  to  the  little  altar  in  the  wood.  A  strange  and 
holy  place.  The  boy  that  held  the  censer  had  swung  it 
gently  to  and  fro  near  the  door  with  the  silvery  cap 
lifted  by  the  middle  chain  to  keep  the  coals  lighting. 
That  was  called  charcoal:  and  it  had  burned  quietly  as 
the  fellow  had  swung  it  gently  and  had  given  off  a  weak 
sour  smell.  And  then  when  all  were  vested  he  had  stood 
holding  out  the  boat  to  the  rector  and  the  rector  had 

[42] 


put  a  spoonful  of  incense  in  and  it  had  hissed  on  the 
red  coals. 

The  fellows  were  talking  together  in  little  groups  here 
and  there  on  the  playground.  The  fellows  seemed  to 
him  to  have  grown  smaller :  that  was  because  a  sprinter 
had  knocked  him  down  the  day  before,  a  fellow  out  of 
second  of  grammar.  He  had  been  thrown  by  the  fel- 
low ^s  machine  lightly  on  the  cinderpath  and  his  spec- 
tacles had  been  broken  in  three  pieces  and  some  of  the 
grit  of  the  cinders  had  gone  into  his  mouth. 

That  was  why  the  fellows  seemed  to  him  smaller  and 
farther  away  and  the  goalposts  so  thin  and  far  and  the 
soft  grey  sky  so  high  up.  But  there  was  no  play  on 
the  football  grounds  for  cricket  was  coming:  and  some 
said  that  Barnes  would  be  the  prof  and  some  said  it 
would  be  Flowers.  And  all  over  the  playgrounds  they 
were  playing  rounders  and  bowling  twisters  and  lobs. 
And  from  here  and  from  there  came  the  sounds  of  the 
cricket  bats  through  the  soft  grey  air.  They  said :  pick, 
pack,  pock,  puck:  little  drops  of  water  in  a  fountain 
slowly  falling  in  the  brimming  bowl. 

Athy,  who  had  been  silent,  said  quietly : 

—  You  are  all  wrong. 

All  turned  towards  him  eagerly. 

—  Why? 

—  Do  you  know  ? 

—  Who  told  you? 

—  Tell  us,  Athy. 

Athy  pointed  across  the  playground  to  where  Simon 
Moonan  was  walking  by  himself  kicking  a  stone  before 
him. 

—  Ask  him,  he  said. 

The  fellows  looked  there  and  then  said : 
[43] 


—  Why  him  ? 

—  Is  he  in  it  ? 

Athy  lowered  his  voice  and  said: 

—  Do  you  know  why  those  fellows  scut?  I  will  tell 
you  but  you  must  not  let  on  you  know. 

—  Tell  us,  Athy.    Go  on.    You  might  if  you  know. 
He  paused  for  a  moment  and  then  said  mysteriously: 

—  They  were  caught  with  Simon  Moonan  and  Tusker 
Boyle  in  the  square  one  night. 

The  fellows  looked  at  him  and  asked : 

—  Caught? 

—  What  doing? 
Athy  said: 

—  Smugging. 

All  the  fellows  were  silent :  and  Athy  said : 

—  And  that's  why? 

Stephen  looked  at  the  faces  of  the  fellows  but  they 
were  all  looking  across  the  playground.  He  wanted  to 
ask  somebody  about  it.  What  did  that  mean  about  the 
smugging  in  the  square  ?  Why  did  the  five  fellows  out 
of  the  higher  line  run  away  for  that  ?  It  was  a  joke,  he 
thought.  Simon  Moonan  had  nice  clothes  and  one  night 
he  had  shown  him  a  ball  of  creamy  sweets  that  the  fel- 
lows of  the  football  fifteen  had  rolled  down  to  him  along 
the  carpet  in  the  middle  of  the  refectory  when  he  was 
at  the  door.  It  was  the  night  of  the  match  against  the 
Bective  Rangers  and  the  ball  was  made  just  like  a  red 
and  green  apple  only  it  opened  and  it  was  full  of  the 
creamy  sweets.  And  one  day  Boyle  had  said  that  an 
elephant  had  two  tuskers  instead  of  two  tusks  and  that 
was  why  he  was  called  Tusker  Boyle  but  some  fellows 
called  him  Lady  Boyle  because  he  was  always  at  his 
nails,  paring  them. 

[44] 


Eileen  had  long  thin  cool  white  hands  too  because  she 
was  a  girl.  They  were  like  ivory ;  only  soft.  That  was 
the  meaning  of  Tower  of  Ivory  but  protestants  could  not 
understand  it  and  made  fun  of  it.  One  day  he  had  stood 
beside  her  looking  into  the  hotel  grounds.  A  waiter  was 
running  up  a  trail  of  bunting  on  the  flagstaff  and  a  fox 
terrier  was  scampering  to  and  fro  on  the  sunny  lawn. 
She  had  put  her  hand  into  his  pocket  where  his  hand  was 
and  he  had  felt  how  cool  and  thin  and  soft  her  hand  was. 
She  had  said  that  pockets  were  funny  things  to  have: 
and  then  all  of  a  sudden  she  had  broken  away  and  had 
run  laughing  down  the  sloping  curve  of  the  path.  Her 
fair  hair  had  streamed  out  behind  her  like  gold  in  the 
sun.  Tower  of  Ivory.  House  of  Gold,  By  thinking  of 
things  you  could  understand  them. 

But  why  in  the  square?  You  went  there  when  you 
wanted  to  do  something.  It  was  all  thick  slabs  of  slate 
and  water  trickled  all  day  out  of  tiny  pinholes  and  there 
was  a  queer  smell  of  stale  water  there.  And  behind  the 
door  of  one  of  the  closets  there  was  a  drawing  in  red 
pencil  of  a  bearded  man  in  a  Roman  dress  with  a  brick 
in  each  hand  and  underneath  was  the  name  of  the 
drawing : 

Balhus  was  'building  a  wall. 

Some  fellows  had  drawn  it  there  for  a  cod.  It  had  a 
funny  face  but  it  was  very  like  a  man  with  a  beard.  And 
on  the  wall  of  another  closet  there  was  written  in  back- 
hand in  beautiful  writing: 

Julius  Caesar  wrote  The  Calico  Belly, 

Perhaps  that  was  why  they  were  there  because  it  was 
a  place  where  some  fellows  wrote  things  for  cod.  But 
all  the  same  it  was  queer  what  Athy  said  and  the  way 
he  said  it.    It  was  not  a  cod  because  they  had  run  away. 

[45] 


He  looked  with  the  others  across  the  playground  and 
began  to  feel  afraid. 
At  last  Fleming  said : 

—  And  we  are  all  to  be  punished  for  what  other  fel- 
lows did? 

—  I  won't  come  back,  see  if  I  do,  Cecil  Thunder  said. 
Three  days'  silence  in  the  refectory  and  sending  us  up 
for  six  and  eight  every  minute. 

—  Yes,  said  Wells.  And  old  Barrett  has  a  new  way 
of  twisting  the  note  so  that  you  can't  open  it  and  fold 
it  again  to  see  how  many  ferulae  you  are  to  get.  I  won't 
come  back  too. 

—  Yes,  said  Cecil  Thunder,  and  the  prefect  of  studies 
was  in  second  of  grammar  this  morning. 

—  Let  us  get  up  a  rebellion,  Fleming  said.    Will  we  ? 
All  the  fellows  were  silent.    The  air  was  very  silent 

and  you  could  hear  the  cricket  bats  but  more  slowly  than 
before :  pick,  pock. 
Wells  asked: 

—  What  is  going  to  be  done  to  them? 

—  Simon  Moonan  and  Tusker  are  going  to  be  flogged, 
Athy  said,  and  the  fellows  in  the  higher  line  got  their 
choice  of  flogging  or  being  expelled. 

—  And  which  are  they  taking?  asked  the  fellow  who 
had  spoken  first. 

—  All  are  taking  expulsion  except  Corrigan,  Athy  an- 
swered.   He's  going  to  be  flogged  by  Mr  Gleeson. 

—  I  know  why,  Cecil  Thunder  said.  He  is  right  and 
the  other  fellows  are  wrong  because  a  flogging  wears  off 
after  a  bit  but  a  fellow  that  has  been  expelled  from  col- 
lege is  known  all  his  life  on  account  of  it.  Besides 
Gleeson  won't  flog  him  hard. 

—  It's  best  of  his  play  not  to,  Fleming  said. 

[46] 


—  I  wouldn't  like  to  be  Simon  Moonan  and  Tusker, 
Cecil  Thunder  said.  But  I  don't  believe  they  will  be 
flogged.     Perhaps  they  will  be  sent  up  for  twice  nine. 

—  No,  no,  said  Athy.  They'll  both  get  it  on  the  vital 
spot. 

Wells  rubbed  himself  and  said  in  a  crying  voice : 

—  Please,  sir,  let  me  off ! 

Athy  grinned  and  turned  up  the  sleeves  of  his  jacket, 
saying : 

It  can't  be  helped; 

It  must  be  done. 

So  down  with  your  breeches 

And  out  with  your  bum. 

The  fellows  laughed ;  but  he  felt  that  they  were  a  little 
afraid.  In  the  silence  of  the  soft  grey  air  he  heard  the 
cricket  bats  from  here  and  from  there :  pock.  That  was 
a  sound  to  hear  but  if  you  were  hit  then  you  would  feel 
a  pain.  The  pandybat  made  a  sound  too  but  not  like 
that.  The  fellows  said  it  was  made  of  whalebone  and 
leather  with  lead  inside :  and  he  wondered  what  was  the 
pain  like.  There  were  different  kinds  of  sounds.  A 
long  thin  cane  would  have  a  high  whistling  sound  and  he 
wondered  what  was  that  pain  like.  It  made  him  shivery 
to  think  of  it  and  cold:  and  what  Athy  said  too.  But 
what  was  there  to  laugh  at  in  it  ?  It  made  him  shivery : 
but  that  was  because  you  always  felt  like  a  shiver  when 
you  let  down  your  trousers.  It  was  the  same  in  the 
bath  when  you  undressed  yourself.  He  wondered  who 
had  to  let  them  down,  the  master  or  the  boy  himself. 
0  how  could  they  laugh  about  it  that  way? 

He  looked  at  Athy 's  roUed-up  sleeves  and  knuckly  inky 
hands.    He  had  rolled  up  his  sleeves  to  show  how  Mr 

[47] 


Gleeson  would  roll  up  his  sleeves.  But  Mr  Gleeson  had 
round  shiny  cuffs  and  clean  white  wrists  and  fattish 
white  hands  and  the  nails  of  them  were  long  and  pointed. 
Perhaps  he  pared  them  too  like  Lady  Boyle.  But  they 
were  terribly  long  and  pointed  nails.  So  long  and  cruel 
they  were  though  the  white  fattish  hands  were  not  cruel 
but  gentle.  And  though  he  trembled  with  cold  and 
fright  to  think  of  the  cruel  long  nails  and  of  the  high 
whistling  sound  of  the  cane  and  of  the  chill  you  felt  at 
the  end  of  your  shirt  when  you  undressed  yourself  yet 
he  felt  a  feeling  of  queer  quiet  pleasure  inside  him  to 
think  of  the  white  fattish  hands,  clean  and  strong  and 
gentle.  And  he  thought  of  what  Cecil  Thunder  had 
said;  that  Mr  Gleeson  would  not  flog  Corrigan  hard. 
And  Fleming  had  said  he  would  not  because  it  was  best 
of  his  play  not  to.  But  that  was  not  why. 
A  voice  from  far  out  on  the  playground  cried : 

—  All  in! 

And  other  voices  cried : 

—  All  in!     All  in! 

During  the  writing  lesson  he  sat  with  his  arms  folded, 
listening  to  the  slow  scraping  of  the  pens.  Mr  Harford 
went  to  and  fro  making  little  signs  in  red  pencil  and 
sometimes  sitting  beside  the  boy  to  show  him  how  to 
hold  his  pen.  He  had  tried  to  spell  out  the  headline  for 
himself  though  he  knew  already  what  it  was  for  it  was 
the  last  of  the  book.  Zeal  without  prudence  is  like  a 
ship  adrift.  But  the  lines  of  the  letters  were  like  fine 
invisible  threads  and  it  was  only  by  closing  his  right  eye 
tight  tight  and  staring  out  of  the  left  eye  that  he  could 
make  out  the  full  curves  of  the  capital. 

But  Mr  Harford  was  very  decent  and  never  got  into  a 
wax.    All  the  other  masters  got  into  dreadful  waxes. 

[48] 


But  why  were  they  to  suffer  for  what  fellows  in  the 
higher  line  did?  Wells  had  said  that  they  had  drunk 
some  of  the  altar  wine  out  of  the  press  in  the  sacristy 
and  that  it  had  been  found  out  who  had  done  it  by  the 
smell.  Perhaps  they  had  stolen  a  monstrance  to  run 
away  with  it  and  sell  it  somewhere.  That  must  have 
been  a  terrible  sin,  to  go  in  there  quietly  at  night,  to 
open  the  dark  press  and  steal  the  flashing  gold  thing 
into  which  God  was  put  on  the  altar  in  the  middle  of 
flowers  and  candles  at  benediction  while  the  incense  went 
up  in  clouds  at  both  sides  as  the  fellow  swung  the  censer 
and  Dominic  Kelly  sang  the  first  part  by  himself  in  the 
choir.  But  God  was  not  in  it  of  course  when  they  stole 
it.  But  still  it  was  a  strange  and  a  great  sin  even  to 
touch  it.  He  thought  of  it  with  deep  awe;  a  terrible 
and  strange  sin:  it  thrilled  him  to  think  of  it  in  the 
silence  when  the  pens  scraped  lightly.  But  to  drink  the 
altar  wine  out  of  the  press  and  be  found  out  by  the  smell 
was  a  sin  too:  but  it  was  not  terrible  and  strange.  It 
only  made  you  feel  a  little  sickish  on  account  of  the 
smell  of  the  wine.  Because  on  the  day  when  he  had 
made  his  first  holy  communion  in  the  chapel  he  had  shut 
his  eyes  and  opened  his  mouth  and  put  out  his  tongue 
a  little:  and  when  the  rector  had  stooped  down  to  give 
him  the  holy  communion  he  had  smelt  a  faint  winy  smell 
off  the  rector's  breath  after  the  wine  of  the  mass.  The 
word  was  beautiful:  wine.  It  made  you  think  of  dark 
purple  because  the  grapes  were  dark  purple  that  grew 
in  Greece  outside  houses  like  white  temples.  But  the 
faint  smell  off  the  rector's  breath  had  made  him  feel  a 
sick  feeling  on  the  morning  of  his  first  communion.  The 
day  of  your  first  communion  was  the  happiest  day  of 
your  life.    And  once  a  lot  of  generals  had  asked  Napo- 

[49] 


leon  what  was  the  happiest  day  of  his  life.  They  thought 
he  would  say  the  day  he  won  some  great  battle  or  the 
day  he  was  made  an  emperor.    But  he  said : 

—  Gentlemen,  the  happiest  day  of  my  life  was  the  day 
on  which  I  made  my  first  holy  communion. 

Father  Arnall  came  in  and  the  Latin  lesson  began  and 
he  remained  still  leaning  on  the  desk  with  his  arms 
folded.  Father  Arnall  gave  out  the  theme-books  and 
he  said  that  they  were  scandalous  and  that  they  were  all 
to  be  written  out  again  with  the  corrections  at  once. 
But  the  worst  of  all  was  Fleming's  theme  because  the 
pages  were  stuck  together  by  a  blot :  and  Father  Arnall 
held  it  up  by  a  corner  and  said  it  was  an  insult  to  any 
master  to  send  him  up  such  a  theme.  Then  he  asked 
Jack  Lawton  to  decline  the  noun  mare  and  Jack  Lawton 
stopped  at  the  ablative  singular  and  could  not  go  on  with 
the  plural. 

—  You  should  be  ashamed  of  yourself,  said  Father 
Arnall  sternly.     You,  the  leader  of  the  class ! 

Then  he  asked  the  next  boy  and  the  next  and  the  next. 
Nobody  knew.  Father  Arnall  became  very  quiet,  more 
and  more  quiet  as  each  boy  tried  to  answer  it  and  could 
not.  But  his  face  was  black  looking  and  his  eyes  were 
staring  though  his  voice  was  so  quiet.  Then  he  asked 
Fleming  and  Fleming  said  that  that  word  had  no  plural. 
Father  Arnall  suddenly  shut  the  book  and  shouted  at 
him: 

—  Kneel  out  there  in  the  middle  of  the  class.  You 
are  one  of  the  idlest  boys  I  ever  met.  Copy  out  your 
themes  again  the  rest  of  you. 

Fleming  moved  heavily  out  of  his  place  and  knelt  be- 
tween the  two  last  benches.  The  other  boys  bent  over 
their  theme-books  and  began  to  write.    A  silence  filled 

[50] 


the  classroom  and  Stephen,  glancing  timidly  at  Father 
Arnairs  dark  face,  saw  that  it  was  a  little  red  from  the 
wax  he  was  in. 

Was  that  a  sin  for  Father  Arnall  to  be  in  a  wax  or 
was  he  allowed  to  get  into  a  wax  when  the  boys  were 
idle  because  that  made  them  study  better  or  was  he  only 
letting  on  to  be  in  a  wax?  It  was  because  he  was  al- 
lowed because  a  priest  would  know  what  a  sin  was  and 
would  not  do  it.  But  if  he  did  it  one  time  by  mistake 
what  would  he  do  to  go  to  confession?  Perhaps  he 
would  go  to  confession  to  the  minister.  And  if  the  min- 
ister did  it  he  would  go  to  the  rector :  and  the  rector  to 
the  provincial :  and  the  provincial  to  the  general  of  the 
Jesuits.  That  was  called  the  order :  and  he  had  heard  his 
father  say  that  they  were  all  clever  men.  They  could 
all  have  become  high-up  people  in  the  world  if  they  had 
not  become  Jesuits.  And  he  wondered  what  Father 
Arnall  and  Paddy  Barrett  would  have  become  and  what 
Mr  McGlade  and  Mr  Gleeson  would  have  become  if  they 
had  not  become  Jesuits.  It  was  hard  to  think  what  be- 
cause you  would  have  to  think  of  them  in  a  different 
way  with  different  coloured  coats  and  trousers  and  with 
beards  and  moustaches  and  different  kinds  of  hats. 

The  door  opened  quietly  and  closed.  A  quick  whisper 
ran  through  the  class :  the  prefect  of  studies.  There  was 
an  instant  of  dead  silence  and  then  the  loud  crack  of  a 
pandybat  on  the  last  desk.  Stephen's  heart  leapt  up 
in  fear. 

—  Any  boys  want  flogging  here,  Father  Arnall  ?  cried 
the  prefect  of  studies.  Any  lazy  idle  loafers  that  want 
flogging  in  this  class? 

He  came  to  the  middle  of  the  class  and  saw  Fleming 
on  his  knees. 

[51] 


—  Hoho !  he  cried.  Who  is  this  boy  ?  Why  is  he  on 
his  knees  ?     What  is  your  name,  boy  ? 

—  Fleming,  sir. 

—  Hoho,  Fleming!  An  idler  of  course.  I  can  see 
it  in  your  eye.  Why  is  he  on  his  knees,  Father  Ar- 
nall? 

—  He  wrote  a  bad  Latin  theme.  Father  Arnall  said, 
and  he  missed  all  the  questions  in  grammar. 

—  Of  course  he  did!  cried  the  prefect  of  studies,  of 
course  he  did !  A  bom  idler !  I  can  see  it  in  the  corner 
of  his  eye. 

He  banged  his  pandybat  down  on  the  desk  and  cried : 

—  Up,  Fleming !     Up,  my  boy ! 
Fleming  stood  up  slowly. 

—  Hold  out !  cried  the  prefect  of  studies. 

Fleming  held  out  his  hand.  The  pandybat  came  down 
on  it  with  a  loud  smacking  sound :  one,  two,  three,  four, 
five,  six. 

—  Other  hand ! 

The  pandybat  came  down  again  in  six  loud  quick 
smacks. 

—  Kneel  down!  cried  the  prefect  of  studies. 
Fleming  knelt  down  squeezing  his  hands  under  his 

armpits,  his  face  contorted  with  pain,  but  Stephen  knew 
how  hard  his  hands  were  because  Fleming  was  always 
rubbing  rosin  into  them.  But  perhaps  he  was  in  great 
pain  for  the  noise  of  the  pandybat  was  terrible. 
Stephen's  heart  was  beating  and  fluttering. 

—  At  your  work,  all  of  you!  shouted  the  prefect  of 
studies.  We  want  no  lazy  idle  loafers  here,  lazy  idle 
little  schemers.  At  your  work,  I  tell  you.  Father 
Dolan  will  be  in  to  see  you  eYery  day,  Father  Dolan 
livill  be  in  tomorrow. 

[52] 


He  poked  one  of  the  boys  in  the  side  with  the  pandy- 
bat,  saying : 

—  You,  boy !    When  will  Father  Dolan  be  in  again  ? 

—  Tomorrow,  sir,  said  Tom  Furlong's  voice. 

—  Tomorrow  and  tomorrow  and  tomorrow,  said  the 
prefect  of  studies.  Make  up  your  minds  for  that. 
Every  day  Father  Dolan.  Write  away.  You,  boy,  who 
are  you? 

Stephen's  heart  jumped  suddenly. 

—  Dedalus,  sir. 

—  Why  are  you  not  writing  like  the  others? 
— I    .    .    .    my    ... 

He  could  not  speak  with  fright. 

—  Why  is  he  not  writing,  Father  Arnall  ? 

—  He  broke  his  glasses,  said  Father  Arnall,  and  I 
exempted  him  from  work. 

—  Broke?  What  is  this  I  hear?  What  is  this? 
Your  name  is?  said  the  prefect  of  studies. 

— ^  Dedalus,  sir. 

—  Out  here,  Dedalus.  Lazy  little  schemer.  I  see 
schemer  in  your  face.  Where  did  you  break  your 
glasses  ? 

Stephen  stumbled  into  the  middle  of  the  class,  blinded 
by  fear  and  haste. 

—  Where  did  you  break  your  glasses?  repeated  the 
prefect  of  studies. 

—  The  cinderpath,  sir. 

—  Hoho!  The  cinderpath!  cried  the  prefect  of 
studies.     I  know  that  trick. 

Stephen  lifted  his  eyes  in  wonder  and  saw  for  a  mo- 
ment Father  Dolan 's  whitegrey  not  young  face,  his 
baldy  whitegrey  head  with  fluff  at  the  sides  of  it,  the 
steel  rims  of  his  spectacles  and  his  uo-coloured  eyes  look- 

[53] 


ing  through  the  glasses.  Why  did  he  say  he  knew  that 
trick? 

—  Lazy  idle  little  loafer !  cried  the  prefect  of  studies. 
Broke  my  glasses!  An  old  schoolboy  trick!  Out  with 
your  hand  this  moment ! 

Stephen  closed  his  eyes  and  held  out  in  the  air  his 
trembling  hand  with  the  palm  upwards.  He  felt  the 
prefect  of  studies  touch  it  for  a  moment  at  the  fingers 
to  straighten  it  and  then  the  swish  of  the  sleeve  of  the 
soutane  as  the  pandybat  was  lifted  to  strike.  A  hot 
burning  stinging  tingling  blow  like  the  loud  crack  of  a 
broken  stick  made  his  trembling  hand  crumple  together 
like  a  leaf  in  the  fire:  and  at  the  sound  and  the  pain 
scalding  tears  were  driven  into  his  eyes.  His  whole 
body  was  shaking  with  fright,  his  arm  was  shaking  and 
his  crumpled  burning  livid  hand  shook  like  a  loose  leaf 
in  the  air.  A  cry  sprang  to  his  lips,  a  prayer  to  be  let 
off.  But  though  the  tears  scalded  his  eyes  and  his  limbs 
quivered  with  pain  and  fright  he  held  back  the  hot  tears 
and  the  cry  that  scalded  his  throat. 

—  Other  hand !  shouted  the  prefect  of  studies. 
Stephen  drew  back  his  maimed  and  quivering  right 

arm  and  held  out  his  left  hand.  The  soutane  sleeve 
swished  again  as  the  pandybat  was  lifted  and  a  loud 
crashing  sound  and  a  fierce  maddening  tingling  burning 
pain  made  his  hand  shrink  together  with  the  palms  and 
fingers  in  a  livid  quivering  mass.  The  scalding  water 
burst  forth  from  his  eyes  and,  burning  with  shame  and 
agony  and  fear,  he  drew  back  his  shaking  arm  in  terror 
and  burst  out  into  a  whine  of  pain.  His  body  shook 
with  a  palsy  of  fright  and  in  shame  and  rage  he  felt  the 
scalding  cry  come  from  his  throat  and  the  scalding  tears 
falling  out  of  his  eyes  and  down  his  flaming  cheeks. 

[54] 


—  Kneel  down !  cried  the  prefect  of  studies. 
Stephen  knelt  down  quickly  pressing  his  beaten  hands 

to  his  sides.  To  think  of  them  beaten  and  swollen  with 
pain  all  in  a  moment  made  him  feel  so  sorry  for  them 
as  if  they  were  not  his  own  but  someone  else's  that  he 
felt  sorry  for.  And  as  he  knelt,  calming  the  last  sobs 
in  his  throat  and  feeling  the  burning  tingling  pain 
pressed  in  to  his  sides,  he  thought  of  the  hands  which 
he  had  held  out  in  the  air  with  the  palms  up  and  of  the 
firm  touch  of  the  prefect  of  studies  when  he  had  steadied 
the  shaking  fingers  and  of  the  beaten  swollen  reddened 
mass  of  palm  and  fingers  that  shook  helplessly  in  the  air. 

—  Get  at  your  work,  all  of  you,  cried  the  prefect  of 
studies  from  the  door.  Father  Dolan  will  be  in  every 
day  to  see  if  any  boy,  any  lazy  idle  little  loafer  wants 
flogging.    Every  day.    Every  day. 

The  door  closed  behind  him. 

The  hushed  class  continued  to  copy  out  the  themes. 
Father  Arnall  rose  from  his  seat  and  went  among  them, 
helping  the  boys  with  gentle  words  and  telling  them  the 
mistakes  they  had  made.  His  voice  was  very  gentle  and 
soft.  Then  he  returned  to  his  seat  and  said  to  Fleming 
and  Stephen: 

—  You  may  return  to  your  places,  you  two. 
Fleming  and  Stephen  rose  and,  walking  to  their  seats, 

sat  down.  Stephen,  scarlet  with  shame,  opened  a  book 
quickly  with  one  weak  hand  and  bent  down  upon  it,  his 
face  close  to  the  page. 

It  was  unfair  and  cruel  because  the  doctor  had  told 
him  not  to  read  without  glasses  and  he  had  written  home 
to  his  father  that  morning  to  send  him  a  new  pair.  And 
Father  Arnall  had  said  that  he  need  not  study  till  the 
new  glasses  came.    Then  to  be  called  a  schemer  before 

[55] 


the  class  and  to  be  pandied  when  he  always  got  the  card 
for  first  or  second  and  was  the  leader  of  the  Yorkists! 
How  could  the  prefect  of  studies  know  that  it  was  a 
trick?  He  felt  the  touch  of  the  prefect's  fingers  as 
they  had  steadied  his  hand  and  at  first  he  had  thought 
he  was  going  to  shake  hands  with  him  because  the  fingers 
were  soft  and  firm :  but  then  in  an  instant  he  had  heard 
the  swish  of  the  soutane  sleeve  and  the  crash.  It  was 
cruel  and  unfair  to  make  liim  kneel  in  the  middle  of  the 
class  then:  and  Father  Arnall  had  told  them  both  that 
they  might  return  to  their  places  without  making  any 
difference  between  them.  He  listened  to  Father  Arnall's 
low  and  gentle  voice  as  he  corrected  the  themes.  Per- 
haps he  was  sorry  now  and  wanted  to  be  decent.  But 
it  was  unfair  and  cruel.  The  prefect  of  studies  was  a 
priest  but  that  was  cruel  and  unfair.  And  his  white- 
grey  face  and  the  no-coloured  eyes  behind  the  steel 
rimmed  spectacles  were  cruel  looking  because  he  had 
steadied  the  hand  first  with  his  firm  soft  fingers  and 
that  was  to  hit  it  better  and  louder. 

—  It's  a  stinking  mean  thing,  that's  what  it  is,  said 
Fleming  in  the  corridor  as  the  classes  were  passing  out 
in  file  to  the  refectory,  to  pandy  a  fellow  for  what  is  not 
his  fault. 

—  You  really  broke  your  glasses  by  accident,  didn't 
you?  Nasty  Eoche  asked. 

Stephen  felt  his  heart  filled  by  Fleming's  words  and 
did  not  answer. 

—  Of  course  he  did!  said  Fleming.  I  wouldn't  stand 
it.    I'd  go  up  and  tell  the  rector  on  him. 

—  Yes,  said  Cecil  Thunder  eagerly,  and  I  saw  him 
lift  the  pandybat  over  his  shoulder  and  he's  not  allowed 
to  do  that, 

[56] 


—  Did  they  hurt  much  ?  Nasty  Roche  asked. 

—  Very  much,  Stephen  said. 

—  I  wouldn't  stand  it,  Fleming  repeated,  from  Baldy- 
head  or  any  other  Baldyhead.  It's  a  stinking  mean  low 
trick,  that's  what  it  is.  I'd  go  straight  up  to  the  rector 
and  tell  him  about  it  after  dinner. 

—  Yes,  do.    Yes,  do,  said  Cecil  Thunder. 

—  Yes,  do.  Yes,  go  up  and  tell  the  rector  on  him, 
Dedalus,  said  Nasty  Roche,  because  he  said  that  he'd 
come  in  tomorrow  again  and  pandy  you. 

—  Yes,  yes.    Tell  the  rector,  all  said. 

And  there  were  some  fellows  out  of  second  of  gram- 
mar listening  and  one  of  them  said : 

—  The  senate  and  the  Roman  people  declared  that 
Dedalus  had  been  wrongly  punished. 

It  was  wrong ;  it  was  unfair  and  cruel :  and,  as  he  sat 
in  the  refectory,  he  suffered  time  after  time  in  memory 
the  same  humiliation  until  he  began  to  wonder  whether 
it  might  not  really  be  that  there  was  something  in  his 
face  which  made  him  look  like  a  schemer  and  he  wished 
he  had  a  little  mirror  to  see.  But  there  could  not  be; 
and  it  was  unjust  and  cruel  and  unfair. 

He  could  not  eat  the  blackish  fish  fritters  they  got  on 
Wednesdays  in  Lent  and  one  of  his  potatoes  had  the 
mark  of  the  spade  in  it.  Yes,  he  would  do  what  the 
fellows  had  told  him.  He  would  go  up  and  tell  the 
rector  that  he  had  been  wrongly  punished.  A  thing  like 
that  had  been  done  before  by  somebody  in  history,  by 
some  great  person  whose  head  was  in  the  books  of  his- 
tory. And  the  rector  would  declare  that  he  had  been 
wrongly  punished  because  the  senate  and  the  Roman 
people  always  declared  that  the  men  who  did  that  had 
been  wrongly  punished.    Those   were   the   great   men 

[57] 


whose  names  were  in  Riehmal  Magnall's  Questions. 
History  was  all  about  those  men  and  what  they  did  and 
that  was  what  Peter  Parley's  Tales  about  Greece  and 
Eome  were  all  about.  Peter  Parley  himself  was  on  the 
first  page  in  a  picture.  There  was  a  road  over  a  heath 
with  grass  at  the  side  and  little  bushes :  and  Peter  Parley 
had  a  broad  hat  like  a  protestant  minister  and  a  big 
stick  and  he  was  walking  fast  along  the  road  to  Greece 
and  Rome. 

It  was  easy  what  he  had  to  do.  All  he  had  to  do 
was  when  the  dinner  was  over  and  he  came  out  in  his 
turn  to  go  on  walking  but  not  out  to  the  corridor  but  up 
the  staircase  on  the  right  that  led  to  the  castle.  He  had 
nothing  to  do  but  that;  to  turn  to  the  right  and  walk 
fast  up  the  staircase  and  in  half  a  minute  he  would  be 
in  the  low  dark  narrow  corridor  that  led  through  the 
castle  to  the  rector's  room.  And  every  fellow  had  said 
that  it  was  unfair,  even  the  fellow  out  of  second  of 
grammar  who  had  said  that  about  the  senate  and  the 
Roman  people. 

What  would  happen?  He  heard  the  fellows  of  the 
higher  line  stand  up  at  the  top  of  the  refectory  and  heard 
their  steps  as  they  came  down  the  matting :  Paddy  Rath 
and  Jimmy  Magee  and  the  Spaniard  and  the  Portuguese 
and  the  fifth  was  big  Corrigan  who  was  going  to  be 
flogged  by  Mr  Gleeson.  That  was  why  the  prefect  of 
studies  had  called  him  a  schemer  and  pandied  him  for 
nothing:  and,  straining  his  weak  eyes,  tired  with  the 
tears,  he  watched  big  Corrigan 's  broad  shoulders  and 
big  hanging  black  head  passing  in  the  file.  But  he  had 
done  something  and  besides  Mr  Gleeson  would  not  flog 
him  hard :  and  he  remembered  how  big  Corrigan  looked 
in  the  bath.    He  had  skin  the  same  colour  as  the  turf- 

[58] 


coloured  bogwater  in  the  shallow  end  of  the  bath  and 
when  he  walked  along  the  side  his  feet  slapped  loudly 
on  the  wet  tiles  and  at  every  step  his  thighs  shook  a 
little  because  he  was  fat. 

The  refectory  was  half  empty  and  the  fellows  were 
still  passing  out  in  file.  He  could  go  up  the  staircase 
because  there  was  never  a  priest  or  a  prefect  outside 
the  refectory  door.  But  he  could  not  go.  The  rector 
would  side  with  the  prefect  of  studies  and  think  it  was 
a  schoolboy  trick  and  then  the  prefect  of  studies  would 
come  in  every  day  the  same,  only  it  would  be  worse  be- 
cause he  would  be  dreadfully  waxy  at  any  fellow  going 
up  to  the  rector  about  him.  The  fellows  had  told  him 
to  go  but  they  would  not  go  themselves.  They  had 
forgotten  all  about  it.  No,  it  was  best  to  forget  all 
about  it  and  perhaps  the  prefect  of  studies  had  only 
said  he  would  come  in.  No,  it  was  best  to  hide  out  of 
the  way  because  when  you  were  small  and  young  you 
could  often  escape  that  way. 

The  fellows  at  his  table  stood  up.  He  stood  up  and 
passed  out  among  them  in  the  file.  He  had  to  decide. 
He  was  coming  near  the  door.  If  he  went  on  with  the 
fellows  he  could  never  go  up  to  the  rector  because  he 
could  not  leave  the  playground  for  that.  And  if  he 
went  and  was  pandied  all  the  same  all  the  fellows  would 
make  fun  and  talk  about  young  Dedalus  going  up  to  the 
rector  to  tell  on  the  prefect  of  studies. 

He  was  walking  down  along  the  matting  and  he  saw 
the  door  before  him.  It  was  impossible:  he  could  not. 
He  thought  of  the  baldy  head  of  the  prefect  of  studies 
with  the  cruel  no-coloured  eyes  looking  at  him  and  he 
heard  the  voice  of  the  prefect  of  studies  asking  him 
twice  what  his  name  was.    Why  could  he  not  remember 

[59] 


the  name  when  he  was  told  the  first  time?  Was  he  not 
listening  the  first  time  or  was  it  to  make  fun  out  of  the 
name?  The  great  men  in  the  history  had  names  like 
that  and  nobody  made  fun  of  them.  It  was  his  own 
name  that  he  should  have  made  fun  of  if  he  wanted  to 
make  fun.  Dolan :  it  was  like  the  name  of  a  woman  who 
washed  clothes. 

He  had  reached  the  door  and,  turning  quickly  up  to 
the  right,  walked  up  the  stairs;  and,  before  he  could 
make  up  his  mind  to  come  back,  he  had  entered  the  low 
dark  narrow  corridor  that  led  to  the  castle.  And  as  he 
crossed  the  threshold  of  the  door  of  the  corridor  he  saw, 
without  turning  his  head  to  look,  that  all  the  fellows 
were  looking  after  him  as  they  went  filing  by. 

He  passed  along  the  narrow  dark  corridor,  passing 
little  doors  that  were  the  doors  of  the  rooms  of  the  com- 
munity. He  peered  in  front  of  him  and  right  and  left 
through  the  gloom  and  thought  that  those  must  be 
portraits.  It  was  dark  and  silent  and  his  eyes  were 
weak  and  tired  with  tears  so  that  he  could  not  see.  But 
he  thought  they  were  the  portraits  of  the  saints  and 
great  men  of  the  order  who  were  looking  down  on  him 
silently  as  he  passed :  Saint  Ignatius  Loyola  holding  an 
open  book  and  pointing  to  the  words  Ad  Majorem  Dei 
Gloriam  in  it,  saint  Francis  Xavier  pointing  to  his  chest, 
Lorenzo  Ricci  with  his  berretta  on  his  head  like  one  of 
the  prefects  of  the  lines,  the  three  patrons  of  holy  youth, 
saint  Stanislaus  Kostka,  saint  Aloysius  Gonzaga  and 
Blessed  John  Berchmans,  all  with  young  faces  because 
they  died  when  they  were  young,  and  Father  Peter 
Kenny  sitting  in  a  chair  wrapped  in  a  big  cloak.' 

He  came  out  on  the  landing  above  the  entrance  hall 
and    looked   about   him.    That    was   where    Hamilton 

[60] 


Kowan  had  passed  and  the  marks  of  the  soldiers'  slugs 
were  there.  And  it  was  there  that  the  old  servants  had 
seen  the  ghost  in  the  white  cloak  of  a  marshal. 

An  old  servant  was  sweeping  at  the  end  of  the  land- 
ing. He  asked  him  where  was  the  rector's  room  and  the 
old  servant  pointed  to  the  door  at  the  far  end  and  looked 
after  him  as  he  went  on  to  it  and  knocked. 

There  was  no  answer.  He  knocked  again  more  loudly 
and  his  heart  jumped  when  he  heard  a  muffled  voice  say : 

—  Come  in ! 

He  turned  the  handle  and  opened  the  door  and 
fumbled  for  the  handle  of  the  green  baize  door  inside. 
He  found  it  and  pushed  it  open  and  went  in. 

He  saw  the  rector  sitting  at  a  desk  writing.  There 
was  a  skull  on  the  desk  and  a  strange  solemn  smell  in 
the  room  like  the  old  leather  of  chairs. 

His  heart  was  beating  fast  on  account  of  the  solemn 
place  he  was  in  and  the  silence  of  the  room:  and  he 
looked  at  the  skull  and  at  the  rector's  kind-looking  face. 

—  Well,  my  little  man,  said  the  rector,  what  is  it? 
Stephen  swallowed  down  the  thing  in  his  throat  and 

said : 

—  I  broke  my  glasses,  sir. 

The  rector  opened  his  mouth  and  said : 

—  0! 

Then  he  smiled  and  said: 

—  Well,  if  we  broke  our  glasses  we  must  write  home 
for  a  new  pair. 

—  I  wrote  home,  sir,  said  Stephen,  and  Father  Amall 
said  I  am  not  to  study  till  they  come. 

—  Quite  right !  said  the  rector. 

Stephen  swallowed  down  the  thing  again  and  tried  to 
keep  his  legs  and  his  voice  from  shaking. 

[61] 


—  But,  sir  .  .  . 

—  Yes? 

—  Father  Dolan  came  in  today  and  pandied  me  be- 
cause I  was  not  writing  my  theme. 

The  rector  looked  at  him  in  silence  and  he  could  feel 
the  blood  rising  to  his  face  and  the  tears  about  to  rise 
to  his  eyes. 

The  rector  said : 

—  Your  name  is  Dedalus,  isn't  it? 

—  Yes,  sir. 

—  And  where  did  you  break  your  glasses? 

—  On  the  cinderpath,  sir.  A  fellow  was  coming  out 
of  the  bicycle  house  and  I  fell  and  they  got  broken.  I 
don't  know  the  fellow's  name. 

The  rector  looked  at  him  again  in  silence.  Then  he 
smiled  and  said : 

—  0,  well,  it  was  e  mistake,  I  am  sure  Father  Dolan 
did  not  know. 

—  But  I  told  him  I  broke  them,  sir,  and  he  pandied 
me. 

— •  Did  you  tell  him  that  you  had  written  home  for  a 
new  pair  ?  the  rector  asked. 

—  No,  sir. 

—  0  well  then,  said  the  rector.  Father  Dolan  did  not 
understand.  You  can  say  that  I  excuse  you  from  your 
lessons  for  a  few  days. 

Stephen  said  quickly  for  fear  his  trembling  would 
prevent  him : 

—  Yes,  sir,  but  Father  Dolan  said  he  will  come  in  to- 
morrow to  pandy  me  again  for  it. 

—  Very  well,  the  rector  said,  it  is  a  mistake  and  I 
shall  speak  to  Father  Dolan  myself.  Will  that  do 
now? 

[62] 


Stephen  felt  the  tears  wetting  his  eyes  and  mur- 
mured : 

—  0  yes  sir,  thanks. 

The  rector  held  his  hand  across  the  side  of  the  desk 
where  the  skull  was  and  Stephen,  placing  his  hand  in  it 
for  a  moment,  felt  a  cool  moist  palm. 

—  Good  day  now,  said  the  rector,  withdrawing  his 
hand  and  bowing. 

—  Good  day,  sir,  said  Stephen. 

He  bowed  and  walked  quietly  out  of  the  room,  closing 
the  doors  carefully  and  slowly. 

But  when  he  had  passed  the  old  servant  on  the  land- 
ing and  was  again  in  the  low  narrow  dark  corridor  he 
began  to  walk  faster  and  faster.  Faster  and  faster  he 
hurried  on  through  the  gloom  excitedly.  He  bumped 
his  elbow  against  the  door  at  the  end  and,  hurrying  down 
the  staircase,  walked  quickly  through  the  two  corridors 
and  out  into  the  air. 

He  could  hear  the  cries  of  the  fellows  on  the  play- 
grounds. He  broke  into  a  run  and,  running  quicker  and 
quicker,  ran  across  the  cinderpath  and  reached  the  third 
line  playground,  panting. 

The  fellows  had  seen  him  running.  They  closed  round 
him  in  a  ring,  pushing  one  against  another  to  hear. 

—  Tell  us!     Tell  us! 

—  What  did  he  say? 

—  Did  you  go  in  ? 

—  What  did  he  say  ? 

—  Tell  us !     Tell  us ! 

He  told  them  what  he  had  said  and  what  the  rector 
had  said  and,  when  he  had  told  them,  all  the  fellows 
flung  their  caps  spinning  up  into  the  air  and  cried : 

—  Hurroo ! 

[63] 


They  caught  their  caps  and  sent  them  up  again  spin- 
ning skyhigh  and  cried  again : 

—  Hurroo !     Hurroo ! 

They  made  a  cradle  of  their  locked  hands  and  hoisted 
him  up  among  them  and  carried  him  along  till  he 
struggled  to  get  free.  And  when  he  had  escaped  from 
them  they  broke  away  in  all  directions,  flinging  their 
caps  again  into  the  air  and  whistling  as  they  went  spin- 
ning up  and  crying: 

—  Hurroo ! 

And  they  gave  three  groans  for  Baldyhead  Dolan  and 
three  cheers  for  Conmee  and  they  said  he  was  the  de- 
centest  rector  that  was  ever  in  Clongowes. 

The  cheers  died  away  in  the  soft  grey  air.  He  was 
alone.  He  was  happy  and  free:  but  he  would  not  be 
anyway  proud  with  Father  Dolan.  He  would  be  very 
quiet  and  obedient :  and  he  wished  that  he  could  do  some- 
thing kind  for  him  to  show  him  that  he  was  not  proud. 

The  air  was  soft  and  grey  and  mild  and  evening  was 
coming.  There  was  the  smell  of  evening  in  the  air,  the 
smell  of  the  fields  in  the  country  where  they  digged  up 
turnips  to  peel  them  and  eat  them  when  they  went  out 
for  a  walk  to  Major  Barton's,  the  smell  there  was  in  the 
little  wood  beyond  the  pavilion  where  the  gallnuts  were. 

The  fellows  were  practising  long  shies  and  bowling 
lobs  and  slow  twisters.  In  the  soft  grey  silence  he  could 
hear  the  bump  of  the  balls:  and  from  here  and  from 
there  through  the  quiet  air  the  sound  of  the  cricket  bats : 
pick,  pack,  pock,  puck :  like  drops  of  water  in  a  fountain 
falling  softly  in  the  brimming  bowl. 


[64] 


CHAPTER  II 

Uncle  Charles  smoked  such  black  twist  that  at  last  his 
nephew  suggested  to  him  to  enjoy  his  morning  smoke  in 
a  little  outhouse  at  the  end  of  the  garden. 

—  Very  good,  Simon.  All  serene,  Simon,  said  the  old 
man  tranquilly.  Anywhere  you  like.  The  outhouse 
will  do  me  nicely:  it  will  be  more  salubrious. 

—  Damn  me,  said  Mr  Dedalus  frankly,  if  I  know  how 
you  can  smoke  such  villainous  awful  tobacco.  It's  like 
gunpowder,  by  God. 

—  It's  very  nice,  Simon,  replied  the  old  man.  Very 
cool  and  mollifying. 

Every  morning,  therefore,  uncle  Charles  repaired  to 
his  outhouse  but  not  before  he  had  creased  and  brushed 
scrupulously  his  back  hair  and  brushed  and  put  on  his 
tall  hat.  While  he  smoked  the  brim  of  his  tall  hat  and 
the  bowl  of  his  pipe  were  just  visible  beyond  the  jambs 
of  the  outhouse  door.  His  arbour,  as  he  called  the  reek- 
ing outhouse  which  he  shared  with  the  cat  and  the  garden 
tools,  served  him  also  as  a  soundingbox :  and  every  morn- 
ing he  hummed  contentedly  one  of  his  favourite  songs: 
O,  twine  me  a  hower  or  Blue  eyes  and  golden  hair  or  The 
Groves  of  Blarney  while  the  grey  and  blue  coils  of  smoke 
rose  slowly  from  his  pipe  and  vanished  in  the  pure  air. 

During  the  first  part  of  the  summer  in  Blackrock 
uncle  Charles  was  Stephen's  constant  companion.    Uncle 

[65] 


Charles  was  a  hale  old  man  with  a  well  tanned  skin, 
rugged  features  and  white  side  whiskers.  On  week  days 
he  did  messages  between  the  house  in  Carysfort  Avenue 
and  those  shops  in  the  main  street  of  the  town  with  which 
the  family  dealt.  Stephen  was  glad  to  go  with  him  on 
these  errands  for  uncle  Charles  helped  him  very  liber- 
ally to  handfuls  of  whatever  was  exposed  in  open  boxes 
and  barrels  outside  the  counter.  He  would  seize  a  hand- 
ful of  grapes  and  sawdust  or  three  or  four  American 
apples  and  thrust  them  generously  into  his  grand- 
nephew  's  hand  while  the  shopman  smiled  uneasily ;  and, 
on  Stephen's  feigning  reluctance  to  take  them,  he  would 
frown  and  say: 

—  Take  them,  sir.  Do  you  hear  me,  sir?  They're 
good  for  your  bowels. 

When  the  order  list  had  been  booked  the  two  would 
go  on  to  the  park  where  an  old  friend  of  Stephen's 
father,  Mike  Flynn,  would  be  found  seated  on  a,  bench, 
waiting  for  them.  Then  would  begin  Stephen's  run 
round  the  park.  Mike  Flynn  would  stand  at  the  gate 
near  the  railway  station,  watch  in  hand,  while  Stephen 
ran  round  the  track  in  the  style  Mike  Flynn  favoured, 
his  head  high  lifted,  his  knees  well  lifted  and  his  hands 
held  straight  down  by  his  sides.  When  the  morning 
practice  was  over  the  trainer  would  make  his  comments 
and  sometimes  illustrate  them  by  shuffling  along  for  a 
yard  or  so  comically  in  an  old  pair  of  blue  canvas  shoes. 
A  small  ring  of  wonderstruck  children  and  nursemaids 
would  gather  to  watch  him  and  linger  even  when  he  and 
uncle  Charles  had  sat  down  again  and  were  talking 
athletics  and  politics.  Though  he  had  heard  his  father 
say  that  Mike  Flynn  had  put  some  of  the  best  runners 
of  modern  times  through  his  hands  Stephen  often  glanced 

[66] 


at  his  trainer's  flabby  stubble-covered  face,  as  it  bent 
over  the  long  stained  fingers  through  which  he  rolled  his 
cigarette,  and  with  pity  at  the  mild  lustreless  blue  eyes 
which  would  look  up  suddenly  from  the  task  and  gaze 
vaguely  into  the  blue  distance  while  the  long  swollen 
fingers  ceased  their  rolling  and  grains  and  fibres  of 
tobacco  fell  back  into  the  pouch. 

On  the  way  home  uncle  Charles  would  often  pay  a 
visit  to  the  chapel  and,  as  the  font  was  above  Stephen's 
reach,  the  old  man  would  dip  his  hand  and  then  sprinkle 
the  water  briskly  about  Stephen's  clothes  and  on  the 
floor  of  the  porch.  While  he  prayed  he  knelt  on  his  red 
handkerchief  and  read  above  his  breath  from  a  thumb 
blackened  prayer-book  wherein  catchwords  were  printed 
at  the  foot  of  every  page.  Stephen  knelt  at  his  side 
respecting,  though  he  did  not  share,  his  piety.  He  often 
wondered  what  his  granduncle  prayed  for  so  seriously. 
Perhaps  he  prayed  for  the  souls  in  purgatory  or  for  the 
grace  of  a  happy  death  or  perhaps  he  prayed  that  God 
might  send  him  back  a  part  of  the  big  fortune  he  had 
squandered  in  Cork. 

On  Sundays  Stephen  with  his  father  and  his  grand- 
Uncle  took  their  constitutional.  The  old  man  was  a 
nimble  walker  in  spite  of  his  corns  and  often  ten  or 
twelve  miles  of  the  road  were  covered.  The  little  village 
of  Stillorgan  was  the  parting  of  the  ways.  Either  they 
went  to  the  left  towards  the  Dublin  mountains  or  along 
the  Goatstown  road  and  thence  into  Dundrum,  coming 
home  by  Sandyford.  Trudging  along  the  road  or  stand- 
ing in  some  grimy  wayside  public  house  his  elders  spoke 
constantly  of  the  subjects  nearer  their  hearts,  of  Irish 
politics,  of  Munster  and  of  the  legends  of  their  own 
family,  to  all  of  which  Stephen  lent  an  avid  ear.    Words 

[67] 


which  he  did  not  understand  he  said  over  and  over  to 
himself  till  he  had  learnt  them  by  heart:  and  through 
them  he  had  glimpses  of  the  real  world  about  him.  The 
hour  when  he  too  would  take  part  in  the  life  of  that 
world  seemed  drawing  near  and  in  secret  he  began  to 
make  ready  for  the  great  part  which  he  felt  awaited  him 
the  nature  of  which  he  only  dimly  apprehended- 

His  evenings  were  his  own ;  and  he  pored  over  a  ragged 
translation  of  The  Cauni  of  Monte  Cristo.  The  figure 
of  that  dark  avenger  stood  forth  in  his  mind  for  what- 
ever he  had  heard  or  divined  in  childhood  of  the  strange 
and  terrible.  At  night  he  built  up  on  the  parlour  table 
an  image  of  the  wonderful  island  cave  out  of  transfers 
and  paper  flowers  and  coloured  tissue  paper  and  strips 
of  the  silver  and  golden  paper  in  which  chocolate  is 
wrapped.  When  he  had  broken  up  this  scenery,  weary 
of  its  tinsel,  there  would  come  to  his  mind  the  bright 
picture  of  Marseilles,  of  simny  trellises  and  of  Mercedes. 

Outside  Blackrock,  on  the  road  that  led  to  the  moun- 
tains, stood  a  small  whitewashed  house  in  the  garden  of 
which  grew  many  rosebushes :  and  in  this  house,  he  told 
himself,  another  Mercedes  lived.  Both  on  the  outward 
and  on  the  homeward  journey  he  measured  distance  by 
this  landmark :  and  in  his  imagination  he  lived  through 
a  long  train  of  adventures,  marvellous  as  those  in  the 
book  itself,  towards  the  close  of  which  there  appeared  an 
image  of  himself,  grown  older  and  sadder,  standing  in  a 
moonlit  garden  with  Mercedes  who  had  so  many  years 
before  slighted  his  love,  and  with  a  sadly  proud  gesture 
of  refusal,  saying : 

—  Madam,  I  never  eat  muscatel  grapes. 

He  became  the  ally  of  a  boy  named  Aubrey  Mills  and 
founded  with  him  a  gang  of  adventurers  in  the  avenue. 

[681 


Aubrey  carried  a  whistle  dangling  from  his  buttonhole 
and  a  bicycle  lamp  attached  to  his  belt  while  the  others 
had  short  sticks  thrust  daggerwise  through  theirs. 
Stephen,  who  had  read  of  Napoleon's  plain  style  of 
dress,  chose  to  remain  unadorned  and  thereby  heightened 
for  himself  the  pleasure  of  taking  counsel  with  his  lieu- 
tenant before  gi\^g  orders.  The  gang  made  forays  in- 
to the  gardens  of  old  maids  or  went  down  to  the  castle 
and  fought  a  battle  on  the  shaggy  weedgrown  rocks, 
coming  home  after  it  weary  stragglers  with  the  stale 
odours  of  the  foreshore  in  their  nostrils  and  the  rank 
oils  of  the  seawrack  upon  their  hands  and  in  their 
hair. 

Aubrey  and  Stephen  had  a  common  milkman  and  often 
they  drove  out  in  the  milkcar  to  Carrickmines  where 
the  cows  were  at  grass.  While  the  men  were  milking 
the  boys  would  take  turns  in  riding  the  tractable  mare 
round  the  field.  But  when  autumn  came  the  cows  were 
driven  home  from  the  grass:  and  the  first  sight  of  the 
filthy  cowj-ard  at  Stradbrook  with  its  foul  green  puddles 
and  clots  of  liquid  dung  and  steaming  bran  troughs 
sickened  Stephen's  heart.  The  cattle  which  had  seemed 
so  beautiful  in  the  country  on  sunny  days  revolted  him 
and  he  could  not  even  look  at  the  milk  they  yielded. 

The  coming  of  September  did  not  trouble  him  this 
year  for  he  was  not  to  be  sent  back  to  Clongowes.  The 
practice  in  the  park  came  to  an  end  when  Mike  Flynn 
went  into  hospital.  Aubrey  was  at  school  and  had  only 
an  hour  or  two  free  in  the  evening.  The  gang  fell 
asunder  and  there  were  no  more  nightly  forays  or  battles 
on  the  rocks.  Stephen  sometimes  went  round  with  the 
car  which  delivered  the  evening  milk:  and  these  chilly 
drives  blew  away  his  memory  of  the  filth  of  the  cow- 

[69J 


yard  and  he  felt  no  repugnance  at  seeing  the  cow  hairs 
and  hayseeds  on  the  milkman's  coat.  Whenever  the  car 
drew  up  before  a  house  he  waited  to  catch  a  glimpse 
of  a  well  scrubbed  kitchen  or  of  a  softly  lighted  hall 
and  to  see  how  the  servant  would  hold  the  jug  and  how 
she.  would  close  the  door.  He  thought  it  should  be  a 
pleasant  life  enough,  driving  along  the  roads  every  even- 
ing to  deliver  milk,  if  he  had  warm  gloves  and  a  fat  bag 
of  gingernuts  in  his  pocket  to  eat  from.  But  the  same 
foreknowledge  which  had  sickened  his  heart  and  made 
his  legs  sag  suddenly  as  he  raced  round  the  park,  the 
same  intuition  which  had  made  him  glance  with  mis- 
trust at  his  trainer's  flabby  stubblecovered  face  as  it  bent 
heavily  over  his  long  stained  fingers,  dissipated  any 
vision  of  the  future.  In  a  vague  way  he  understood 
that  his  father  was  in  trouble  and  that  this  was  the 
reason  why  he  himself  had  not  been  sent  back  to  Clon- 
gowes.  For  some  time  he  had  felt  the  slight  change  in 
his  house;  and  those  changes  in  what  he  had  deemed 
unchangeable  were  so  many  slight  shocks  to  his  boyish 
conception  of  the  world.  The  ambition  which  he  felt 
astir  at  times  in  the  darkness  of  his  soul  sought  no  outlet. 
A  dusk  like  that  of  the  outer  world  obscured  his  mind 
as  he  heard  the  mare's  hoofs  clattering  along  the  tram- 
track  on  the  Rock  Road  and  the  great  can  swaying  and 
rattling  behind  him. 

He  returned  to  Mercedes  and,  as  he  brooded  upon  her 
image,  a  strange  unrest  crept  into  his  blood.  Sometimes 
a  fever  gathered  within  him  and  led  him  to  rove  alone 
in  the  evening  along  the  quiet  avenue.  The  peace  of 
the  gardens  and  the  kindly  lights  in  the  windows  poured 
a  tender  influence  into  his  restless  heart.  The  noise  of 
children  at  play  annoyed  him  and  their  silly  voices  made 

[70] 


him  feel,  even  more  keenly  than  he  had  felt  at  Clongowes, 
that  he  was  different  from  others.  He  did  not  want  to 
play.  He  wanted  to  meet  in  the  real  world  the  unsub- 
stantial image  which  his  soul  so  constantly  beheld.  He 
did  not  know  where  to  seek  it  or  how  but  a  premonition 
which  led  him  on  told  him  that  this  image  would,  without 
any  overt  act  of  his,  encounter  him.  They  would  meet 
quietly  as  if  they  had  known  each  other  and  had  made 
their  tryst,  perhaps  at  one  of  the  gates  or  in  some  more 
secret  place.  They  would  be  alone,  surrounded  by  dark- 
ness and  silence :  and  in  that  moment  of  supreme  tender- 
ness he  would  be  transfigured.  He  would  fade  into  some- 
thing impalpable  under  her  eyes  and  then  in  a  moment, 
he  would  be  transfigured.  Weakness  and  timidity  and 
inexperience  would  fall  from  him  in  that  magic  moment. 


Two  great  yellow  caravans  had  halted  one  morning 
before  the  door  and  men  had  come  tramping  into  the 
house  to  dismantle  it.  The  furniture  had  been  hustled 
out  through  the  front  garden  which  was  strewn  with 
wisps  of  straw  and  rope  ends  and  into  the  huge  vans 
at  the  gate.  When  all  had  been  safely  stowed  the  vans 
had  set  off  noisily  down  the  avenue :  and  from  the  window 
of  the  railway  carriage,  in  which  he  had  sat  with  his  red 
eyed  mother,  Stephen  had  seen  them  lumbering  along 
the  Merrion  Eoad. 

The  parlour  fire  would  not  draw  that  evening  and  Mr 
Dedalus  rested  the  poker  against  the  bars  of  the  grate  to 
attract  the  flame.  Uncle  Charles  dozed  in  a  corner  of 
the  half  furnished  uncarpeted  room  and  near  him  the 
family  portraits  leaned  against  the  wall.  The  lamp  on 
the  table  shed  a  weak  light  over  the  boarded  floor,  mud- 

[71] 


died  by  the  feet  of  the  vanmen.  Stephen  sat  on  a  foot- 
stool beside  his  father  listening  to  a  long  and  incoherent 
monologue.  He  understood  little  or  nothing  of  it  at  first 
but  he  became  slowly  aware,  that  his  father  had  enemies 
and  that  some  fight  was  going  to  take  place.  He  felt, 
too,  that  he  was  being  enlisted  for  the  fight,  that  some 
duty  was  being  laid  upon  his  shoulders.  The  sudden 
flight  from  the  comfort  and  revery  of  Blackrock,  the  pas- 
sage through  the  gloomy  foggy  city,  the  thought  of  the 
bare  cheerless  house  in  which  they  were  now  to  live  made 
his  heart  heavy :  and  again  an  intuition,  a  foreknowledge 
of  the  future  came  to  him.  He  understood  also  why  the 
servants  had  often  whispered  together  in  the  hall  and 
why  his  father  had  often  stood  on  the  hearthrug,  with 
his  back  to  the  fire,  talking  loudly  to  uncle  Charles  who 
urged  him  to  sit  down  and  eat  his  dinner. 

—  There's  a  crack  of  the  whip  left  in  me  yet,  Stephen, 
old  chap,  said  Mr  Dedalus,  poking  at  the  dull  fire  with 
fierce  energy.  "We're  not  dead  yet,  sonny.  No,  by  the 
Lord  Jesus  (God  forgive  me)  nor  half  dead. 

Dublin  was  a  new  and  complex  sensation.  Uncle 
Charles  had  grown  so  witless  that  he  could  no  longer 
be  sent  out  on  errands  and  the  disorder  in  settling  in 
the  new  house  left  Stephen  freer  than  he  had  been  in 
Blackrock.  In  the  beginning  he  contented  himself  with 
circling  timidly  round  the  neighbouring  square  or,  at 
most,  going  half  way  down  one  of  the  side  streets:  but 
when  he  had  made  a  skeleton  map  of  the  city  in  his 
mind  he  followed  boldly  one  of  its  central  lines  until  he 
reached  the  Custom  House.  He  passed  unchallenged 
among  the  docks  and  along  the  quays  wondering  at  the 
multitude  of  corks  that  lay  bobbing  on  the  surface  of  the 
water  in  a  thick  yellow  scum,  at  the  crowds  of  quay 

[72] 


porters  and  the  rumbling  carts  and  the  ill  dressed 
bearded  policeman.  The  vastness  and  strangeness  of  the 
life  suggested  to  him  by  the  bales  of  merchandise  stocked 
along  the  walls  or  swung  aloft  out  of  the  holds  of 
steamers  wakened  again  in  him  the  unrest  which  had 
^ent  him  wandering  in  the  evening  from  garden  to  gar- 
den in  search  of  Mercedes.  And  amid  this  new  bustling 
life  he  might  have  fancied  himself  in  another  Marseilles 
but  that  he  missed  the  bright  sky  and  the  sun-warmed 
trellisses  of  the  wineshops.  A  vague  dissatisfaction 
grew  up  within  him  as  he  looked  on  the  quays  and  on  the 
river  and  on  the  lowering  skies  and  yet  he  continued  to 
wander  up  and  down  day  after  day  as  if  he  really  sought 
someone  that  eluded  him. 

He  went  once  or  twice  with  his  mother  to  visit  their 
relatives :  and  though  they  passed  a  jovial  array  of  shops 
lit  up  and  adorned  for  Christmas  his  mood  of  embittered 
silence  did  not  leave  him.  The  causes  of  his  embitter- 
ment  were  many,  remote  and  near.  He  was  angry  with 
himself  for  being  young  and  the  prey  of  restless  foolish 
impulses,  angry  also  with  the  change  of  fortune  which 
was  reshaping  the  world  about  him  into  a  vision  of 
squalor  and  insincerity.  Yet  his  anger  lent  nothing  to 
the  vision.  He  chronicled  with  patience  what  he  saw,  de- 
taching himself  from  it  and  testing  its  mortifying  flavour 
in  secret. 

He  was  sitting  on  the  backless  chair  in  his  aunt's 
kitchen.  A  lamp  with  a  reflector  hung  on  the  japanned 
wall  of  the  fireplace  and  by  its  light  his  aunt  was  reading 
the  evening  paper  that  lay  on  her  knees.  She  looked  a 
long  time  at  a  smiling  picture  that  was  set  in  it  and  said 
musingly : 

—  The  beautiful  Mabel  Hunter ! 
[73] 


A  ringletted  girl  stood  on  tiptoe  to  peer  at  the  picture 
and  said  softly : 

—  What  is  she  in,  mud  ? 

—  In  a  pantomime,  love. 

The  child  leaned  her  ringletted  head  against  her 
mother's  sleeve,  gazing  on  the  picture  and  murmured 
as  if  fascinated : 

—  The  beautiful  Mabel  Hunter ! 

As  if  fascinated,  her  eyes  rested  long  upon  those  de- 
murely taunting  eyes  and  she  murmured  devotedly: 

—  Isn't  she  an  exquisite  creature? 

And  the  boy  who  came  in  from  the  street,  stamping 
crookedly  under  his  stone  of  coal,  heard  her  words.  He 
dropped  his  load  promptly  on  the  floor  and  hurried  to 
her  side  to  see.  He  mauled  the  edges  of  the  paper  with 
his  reddened  and  blackened  hands,  shouldering  her  aside 
and  complaining  that  he  could  not  see. 

He  was  sitting  in  the  narrow  breakfast  room  high  up 
in  the  old  dark  windowed  house.  The  firelight  flickered 
on  the  wall  and  beyond  the  window  a  spectral  dusk  was 
gathering  upon  the  river.  Before  the  fire  an  old  woman 
was  busy  making  tea  and,  as  she  bustled  at  the  task, 
she  told  in  a  low  voice  of  what  the  priest  and  the  doctor 
had  said.  She  told  too  of  certain  changes  they  had  seen 
in  her  of  late  and  of  her  odd  ways  and  sayings.  He  sat 
listening  to  the  words  and  following  the  ways  of  ad- 
venture that  lay  open  in  the  coals,  arches  and  vaults  and 
winding  galleries  and  jagged  caverns. 

Suddenly  he  became  aware  of  something  in  the  door- 
way. A  skull  appeared  suspended  in  the  gloom  of  the 
doorway.  A  feeble  creature  like  a  monkey  was  there, 
drawn  there  by  the  sound  of  voices  at  the  fire.  A  whin- 
ing voice  came  from  the  door  asking : 

[74] 


—  Is  that  Josephine  ? 

The  old  bustling  woman  answered  cheerily  from  the 
fireplace : 

—  No,  Ellen,  it's  Stephen. 

—  0  ...  0,  good  evening,  Stephen. 

He  answered  the  greeting  and  saw  a  silly  smile  break 
over  the  face  in  the  doorway. 

—  Do  you  want  anything,  Ellen  ?  asked  the  old  woman 
at  the  fire. 

But  she  did  not  answer  the  question  and  said, 

—  I  thought  it  was  Josephine.  I  thought  you  wei'e 
Josephine,  Stephen. 

And,  repeating  this  several  times,  she  fell  to  laughing 
feebly. 

He  was  sitting  in  the  midst  of  a  children's  party  at 
Harold's  Cross.  His  silent  watchful  manner  had  grown 
upon  him  and  he  took  little  part  in  the  games.  The 
children,  wearing  the  spoils  of  their  crackers,  danced 
and  romped  noisily  and,  though  he  tried  to  share  their 
merriment,  he  felt  himself  a  gloomy  figure  amid  the  gay 
cocked  hats  and  sunbonnets. 

But  when  he  had  sung  his  song  and  withdrawn  into  a 
snug  corner  of  the*  room  he  began  to  taste  the  joy  of 
his  loneliness.  The  mirth,  which  in  the  beginning  of 
the  evening  had  seemed  to  him  false  and  trivial,  was  like 
a  soothing  air  to  him-,  passing  gaily  by  his  senses,  hiding 
from  other  eyes  the  feverish  agitation  of  his  blood  while 
through  the  circling  of  the  dancers  and  amid  the  music 
and  laughter  her  glance  travelled  to  his  corner,  flatter- 
ing, taunting,  searching,  exciting  his  heart. 

In  the  hall  the  children  who  had  stayed  latest  were 
putting  on  their  things:  the  party  was  over.  She  had 
thrown  a  shawl  about  her  and,  as  they  went  together 

[75] 


towards  the  tram,  sprays  of  her  fresh  warm  breath  flew 
gaily  above  her  cowled  head  and  her  shoes  tapped 
blithely  on  the  glassy  road. 

It  was  the  last  tram.  The  lank  brown  horses  knew  it 
and  shook  their  bells  to  the  clear  night  in  admonition. 
The  conductor  talked  with  the  driver,  both  nodding  often 
in  the  green  light  of  the  lamp.  On  the  empty  seats  of 
the  tram  were  scattered  a  few  coloured  tickets.  No 
sound  of  footsteps  came  up  or  down  the  road.  No  sound 
broke  the  peace  of  the  night  save  when  the  lank  brown 
horses  rubbed  their  noses  together  and  shook  their  bells. 

They  seemed  to  listen,  he  on  the  upper  step  and  she 
on  the  lower.  She  came  up  to  his  step  many  times  and 
went  down  to  hers  again  between  their  phrases  and  once 
or  twice  stood  close  beside  him  for  some  moments  on  the 
upper  step,  forgetting  to  go  down,  and  then  went  down. 
His  heart  danced  upon  her  movements  like  a  cork  upon 
a  tide.  He  heard  what  her  eyes  said  to  him  from  be- 
neath their  cowl  and  knew  that  in  some  dim  past,  whether 
in  life  or  revery,  he  had  heard  their  tale  before.  He 
saw  her  urge  her  vanities,  her  fine  dress  and  sash  and 
long  black  stockings,  and  knew  that  he  had  yielded  to 
them  a  thousand  times.  Yet  a  voice  within  him  spoke 
above  the  noise  of  his  dancing  heart,  asking  him  would 
he  take  her  gift  to  which  he  had  only  to  stretch  out  his 
han^.  And  he  remembered  the  day  when  he  and  Eileen 
had  stood  looking  into  the  Hotel  Grounds,  watching  the 
waiters  running  up  a  trail  of  bunting  on  the  flagstaff 
and  the  fox  terrier  scampering  to  and  fro  on  the  sunny 
lawn,  and  how,  all  of  a  sudden,  she  had  broken  out  into  a 
peal  of  laughter  and  had  run  down  the  sloping  curve  of 
the  path.  Now,  as  then,  he  stood  listlessly  in  his  place, 
seemingly  a  tranquil  watcher  of  the  scene  before  him. 

[76] 


—  She  too  wants  me  to  catch  hold  of  her,  he  thought. 
That's  why  she  came  with  me  to  the  tram.  I  could 
easily  catch  hold  of  her  when  she  comes  up  to  my  step : 
nobody  is  looking.    I  could  hold  her  and  kiss  her. 

But  he  did  neither :  and,  when  he  was  sitting  alone  in 
the  deserted  tram  he  tore  his  ticket  into  shreds  and  stared 
gloomily  at  the  corrugated  footboard. 

The  next  day  he  sat  at  his  table  in  the  bare  upper 
room  for  many  hours.  Before  him  lay  a  new  pen,  a  new 
bottle  of  ink  and  a  new  emerald  exercise.  From  force 
of  habit  he  had  written  at  the  top  of  the  first  page  the 
initial  letters  of  the  Jesuit  motto:  A.M.D.G.  On  the 
first  line  of  the  page  appeared  the  title  of  the  verses  he 

was  trying  to  write :  To  E C .    He  knew  it  was 

right  to  begin  so  for  he  had  seen  similar  titles  in  the 
collected  poems  of  Lord  Byron.  "When  he  had  written 
this  title  and  drawn  an  ornamental  line  underneath  he 
fell  into  a  day  dream  and  began  to  draw  diagrams  on 
the  cover  of  the  book.  He  saw  himself  sitting  at  his  table 
in  Bray  the  morning  after  the  discussion  at  the  Christ- 
mas dinner  table,  trying  to  write  a  poem  about  Parnell 
on  the  back  of  one  of  his  father's  second  moiety  notices. 
But  his  brain  had  then  refused  to  grapple  with  the 
theme  and,  desisting,  he  had  covered  the  page  with  the 
names  and  addresses  of  certain  of  his  classmates: 

Eoderick  Kickham 
John  Lawton  ' 
Anthony  MacSwiney 
Simon  Moonan 

Now  it  seemed  as  if  he  would  fail  again  but,  by  dint  of 
brooding  on  the  incident,  he  thought  himself  into  con- 

[77] 


fidence.  During  this  process  all  those  elements  which 
he  deemed  common  and  insignificant  fell  out  of  the  scene. 
There  remained  no  trace  of  the  tram  itself  nor  of  the 
trammen  nor  of  the  horses:  nor  did  he  and  she  appear 
vividly.  The  verses  told  only  of  the  night  and  the  balmy 
breeze  and  the  maiden  lustre  of  the  moon.  Some  un- 
defined sorrow  was  hidden  in  the  hearts  of  the  protago- 
nists as  they  stood  in  silence  beneath  the  leafless  trees 
and  when  the  moment  of  farewell  had  come  the  kiss, 
which  had  been  withheld  by  one,  was  given  by  both. 
After  this  the  letters  L.  D.  S.  were  written  at  the  foot  of 
the  page  and,  having  hidden  the  book,  he  went  into  his 
mother's  bedroom  and  gazed  at  his  face  for  a  long  time 
in  the  mirror  of  her  dressing  table. 

But  his  long  spell  of  leisure  and  liberty  was  drawing 
to  its  end.  One  evening  his  father  came  home  full  of 
news  which  kept  his  tongue  busy  all  through  dinner. 
Stephen  had  been  awaiting  his  father's  return  for  there 
had  been  mutton  hash  that  day  and  he  knew  that  his 
father  would  make  him  dip  his  bread  in  the  gravy.  But 
he  did  not  relish  the  hash  for  the  mention  of  Clongowes 
had  coated  his  palate  with  a  scum  of  disgust. 

—  I  walked  bang  into  him,  said  Mr  Dedalus  for  the 
fourth  cime,  just  at  the  corner  of  the  square. 

—  Then  I  suppose,  said  Mrs  Dedalus,  he  will  be  able 
to  arrange  it.    I  mean  about  Belvedere. 

—  Of  course,  he  will,  said  Mr  Dedalus.  Don't  I  tell 
you  he 's  provincial  of  the  order  now  ? 

—  I  never  liked  the  idea  of  sending  him  to  the  christian 
brothers  myself,  said  Mrs  Dedalus. 

—  Christian  brothers  be  damned!  said  Mr  Dedalus. 
Is  it  with  Paddy  Stink  and  Mickey  Mud  ?  No,  let  him 
stick  to  the  Jesuits  in  God's  name  since  he  began  with 

[78] 


them.     They  11   be   of  service   to  him  in   after  years. 
Those  are  the  fellows  that  can  get  you  a  position. 

—  And  they're  a  very  rich  order,  aren't  they,  Simon? 

—  Bather.  They  live  well,  I  tell  you.  You  saw  their 
table  at  Clongowes.  Fed  up,  by  God,  like  game- 
cocks. 

Mr  Dedalus  pushed  his  plate  over  to  Stephen  and  bade 
him  finish  what  was  on  it. 

—  Now  then,  Stephen,  he  said,  you  must  put  your 
shoulder  to  the  wheel,  old  chap.  YouVe  had  a  fine 
long  holiday. 

—  0,  I'm  sure  hell  work  very  hard  now,  said  Mrs 
Dedalus,  especially  when  he  has  Maurice  with  him. 

—  0,  Holy  Paul,  I  forgot  about  Maurice,  said  Mr 
Dedalus.  Here,  Maurice !  Come  here,  you  thick-headed 
ruffian !  Do  you  know  I  'm  going  to  send  you  to  a  college 
where  they  11  teach  you  to  spell  c.a.t.  cat.  And  111  buy 
you  a  nice  little  penny  handkerchief  to  keep  your  nose 
dry.    Won't  that  be  grand  fun? 

Maurice  grinned  at  his  father  and  then  at  his  brother. 
Mr  Dedalus  screwed  his  glass  into  his  eye  and  stared 
hard  at  both  of  his  sons.  Stephen  mumbled  his  bread 
without  answering  his  father's  gaze. 

—  By  the  bye,  said  Mr  Dedalus  at  length,  the  rector 
or  provincial  rather,  was  telling  me  that  story  about  you 
and  Father  Dolan.    You're  an  impudent  thief,  he  said. 

— -0,  he  didn't,  Simon! 

—  Not  he !  said  Mr  Dedalus.  But  he  gave  me  a  great 
account  of  the  whole  affair.  We  were  chatting,  you 
know,  and  one  word  borrowed  another.  And,  by  the 
way,  who  do  you  think  he  told  me  will  get  that  job  in 
the  corporation?  But  I'll  tell  you  that  after.  Well,  as 
I  was  saying,  we  were  chatting  away  quite  friendly  and 

[79] 


he  asked  me  did  our  friend  here  wear  glasses  still  and 
then  he  told  me  the  whole  story. 

—  And  was  he  annoyed,  Simon  ? 

—  Annoyed!     Not  he!     Manly  little  chap!  he  said. 
Mr  Dedalus  imitated  the  mincing  nasal  tone  of  the 

provincial. 

—  Father  Dolan  and  I,  when- 1  told  them  all  at  dinner 
about  it,  Father  Dolan  and  I  had  a  great  laugh  over  it. 
You  better  mind  yourself ,  Father  Dolan,  said  I,  or  young 
Dedalus  will  send  you  up  for  twice  nine.  We  had  a 
famous  laugh  together  over  it.    Ha !  Ha !  Ha ! 

Mr  Dedalus  turned  to  his  wife  and  interjected  in  his 
natural  voice : 

—  Shows  you  the  spirit  in  which  they  take  the  boys 
there.     0,  a  Jesuit  for  your  life,  for  diplomacy ! 

He  reassumed  the  provincial's  voice  and  repeated: 

—  I  told  them  all  at  dinner  about  it  and  Father  Dolan 
and  I  and  all  of  us  we  all  had  a  hearty  laugh  together 
over  it.     Ha  I  Ha !  Ha ! 

The  night  of  the  Whitsuntide  play  had  come  and 
Stephen  from  the  window  of  the  dressing  room  looked 
out  on  the  small  grassplot  across  which  lines  of  Chinese 
lanterns  were  stretched.  He  watched  the  visitors  come 
down  the  steps  from  the  house  and  pass  into  the  theatre. 
Stewards  in  evening  dress,  old  Belvedereans,  loitered  in 
groups  about  the  entrance  to  the  theatre  and  ushered  in 
the  visitors  with  ceremony.  Under  the  sudden  glow  of  a 
lantern  he  could  recognise  the  smiling  face  of  a  priest. 

The  Blessed  Sacrament  had  been  removed  from  the 
tabernacle  and  the  first  benches  had  been  driven  back 
so  as  to  leave  the  dais  of  the  altar  and  the  space  before 
it  free.  Against  the  walls  stood  companies  of  barbells 
and  Indian  clubs ;  the  dumb  bells  were  piled  in  one  cor- 

[80] 


ner :  and  in  the  midst  of  countless  hillocks  of  gymnasium 
shoes  and  sweaters  and  singlets  in  untidy  brown  parcels 
there  stood  the  stout  leather  jacketed  vaulting  horse  wait- 
ing its  turn  to  be  carried  up  on  the  stage  and  set  in  the 
middle  of  the  winning  team  at  the  end  of  the  gymnastic 
display. 

Stephen,  though  in  deference  to  his  reputation  for 
essay  writing  he  had  been  elected  secretary  to  the  gym- 
nasium, had  had  no  part  in  the  first  section  of  the 
programme,  but  in  the  play  which  formed  the  second 
section  he  had  the  chief  part,  that  of  a  farcical  pedagogue. 
He  had  been  cast  for  it  on  account  of  his  stature  and 
grave  manners  for  he  was  now  at  the  end  of  his  second 
year  at  Belvedere  and  in  number  two. 

A  score  of  the  younger  boys  in  white  knickers  and 
singlets  came  pattering  down  from  the  stage,  through 
the  vestry  and  into  the  chapel.  The  vestry  and  chapel 
were  peopled  with  eager  masters  and  boys.  The  plump 
bald  sergeant  major  was  testing  with  his  foot  the  spring- 
board of  the  vaulting  horse.  The  lean  young  man  in  a 
long  overcoat,  who  was  to  give  a  special  display  of  in- 
tricate club  swinging,  stood  near  watching  with  interest, 
his  silver  coated  clubs  peeping  out  of  his  deep  sidepockets. 
The  hollow  rattle  of  the  wooden  dumb  bells  was  heard 
as  another  team  made  ready  to  go  up  on  the  stage :  and 
in  another  moment  the  excited  prefect  was  hustling  the 
boys  through  the  vestry  like  a  flock  of  geese,  flapping  the 
wings  of  his  soutane  nervously  and  crying  to  the  lag- 
gards to  make  haste.  A  little  troop  of  Neapolitan  peas- 
ants were  practising  their  steps  at  the  end  of  the  chapel, 
some  circling  their  arms  above  their  heads,  some  swaying 
their  baskets  of  paper  violets  and  curtseying.  In  a  dark 
corner  of  the  chapel  at  the  gospel  side  of  the  altar  a  stout 

[81Z 


old  lady  knelt  amid  her  copious  black  skirts.  When  she 
stood  up  a  pink  dressed  figure,  wearing  a  curly  golden 
wig  and  an  old  fashioned  straw  sunbonnet,  with  black 
pencilled  eyebrows  and  cheeks  delicately  rouged  and 
powdered,  was  discovered.  A  low  murmur  of  curiosity 
ran  round  the  chapel  at  the  discovery  of  this  girlish 
figure.  One  of  the  prefects,  smiling  and  nodding  his 
head,  approached  the  dark  corner  and,  having  bowed  to 
the  stout  old  lady,  said  pleasantly : 

—  Is  this  a  beautiful  young  lady  or  a  doll  that  you 
have  here,  Mrs  Tallon  1 

Then,  bending  down  to  peer  at  the  smiling  painted 
face  under  the  leaf  of  the  bonnet,  he  exclaimed : 

—  No!  Upon  my  word  I  believe  it's  little  Bertie 
Tallon  after  all! 

Stephen  at  his  post  by  the  window  heard  the  old  lady 
and  the  priest  laugh  together  and  heard  the  boys'  mur- 
murs of  admiration  behind  him  as  they  passed  forward 
to  see  the  little  boy  who  had  to  dance  the  sunbonnet 
dance  by  himself.  A  movement  of  impatience  escaped 
him.  He  let  the  edge  of  the  blind  fall  and,  stepping 
down  from  the  bench  on  which  he  had  been  standing, 
walked  out  of  the  chapel. 

He  passed  out  of  the  schoolhouse  and  halted  under  the 
shed  that  flanked  the  garden.  From  the  theatre  op- 
posite came  the  muffled  noise  of  the  audience  and  sudden 
brazen  clashes  of  the  soldiers'  band.  The  light  spread 
upwards  from  the  glass  roof  making  the  theatre  seem  a 
festive  ark,  anchored  among  the  hulks  of  houses,  her 
frail  cables  of  lanterns  looping  her  to  her  moorings.  A 
side  door  of  the  theatre  opened  suddenly  and  a  shaft  of 
light  flew  across  the  grassplots.  A  sudden  burst  of  music 
issued  from  the  ark,  the  prelude  of  a  waltz:  and  when 

[82] 


the  side  door  closed  again  the  listener  could  hear  the 
faint  rhythm  of  the  music.  The  sentiment  of  the  open- 
ing bars,  their  languor  and  supple  movement,  evoked 
the  incommunicable  emotion  which  had  been  the  cause 
of  all  his  day's  unrest  and  of  his  impatient  movement 
of  a  moment  before.  His  unrest  issued  from  him  like 
a  wave  of  sound:  and  on  the  tide  of  flowing  music  the 
ark  was  journeying,  trailing  her  cables  of  lanterns  in 
her  wake.  Then  a  noise  like  dwarf  artillery  broke  the 
movement.  It  was  the  clapping  that  greeted  the  entry 
of  the  dumb  bell  team  on  the  stage. 

At  the  far  end  of  the  shed  near  the  street  a  speck  of 
pink  light  showed  in  the  darkness  and  as  he  walked  to- 
wards it  he  became  aware  of  a  faint  aromatic  odour. 
Two  boys  were  standing  in  the  shelter  of  a  doorway, 
smoking,  and  before  he  reached  them  he  had  recognised 
Heron  by  his  voice. 

—  Here  comes  the  noble  Dedalus !  cried  a  high  throat}^ 
voice.    Welcome  to  our  trusty  friend  ! 

This  w^elcome  ended  in  a  soft  peal  of  mirthless  laughter 
as  Heron  salaamed  and  then  began  to  poke  the  ground 
with  his  cane. 

—  Here  I  am,  said  Stephen,  halting  and  glancing  from 
Heron  to  his  friend. 

The  latter  was  a  stranger  to  him  but  in  the  darkness, 
by  the  aid  of  the  glowing  cigarette  tips,  he  could  make 
out  a  pale  dandyish  face,  over  which  a  smile  was  travel- 
ling slowly,  a  tall  overcoated  figure  and  a  hard  hat. 
Heron  did  not  trouble  himself  about  an  introduction  but 
said  instead : 

—  I  was  just  telling  my  friend  Wallis  what  a  lark  it 
would  be  tonight  if  you  took  off  the  rector  in  the  part 
of  the  schoolmaster.    It  would  be  a  ripping  good  joke, 

[83] 


Heron  made  a  poor  attempt  to  imitate  for  his  friend 
Wallis  the  rector's  pedantic  bass  and  then,  laughing  at 
his  failure,  asked  Stephen  to  do  it. 

—  Go  on,  Dedalus,  he  urged,  you  can  take  him  off 
rippingly.  He  that  will  not  hear  the  churcha  let  him  be 
to  theea  as  the  heathena  and  the  puhlicana. 

The  imitation  was  prevented  by  a  mild  expression  of 
anger  from  Wallis  in  whose  mouthpiece  the  cigarette 
had  become  too  tightly  wedged. 

—  Damn  this  blankety  blank  holder,  he  said,  taking  it 
from  his  mouth  and  smiling  and  frowning  upon  it  toler- 
antly. It's  always  getting  stuck  like  that.  Do  you  use 
a  holder  1 

—  I  don 't  smoke,  answered  Stephen. 

—  No,  said  Heron,  Dedalus  is  a  model  youth.  He 
doesn't  smoke  and  he  doesn't  go  to  bazaars  and  he  doesn't 
flirt  and  he  doesn't  damn  anything  or  damn  all. 

Stephen  shook  his  head  and  smiled  in  his  rival's 
flushed  and  mobile  face,  beaked  like  a  bird's.  He  had 
often  thought  it  strange  that  Vincent  Heron  had  a  bird's 
face  as  well  as  a  bird's  name.  A  shock  of  pale  hair 
lay  on  the  forehead  like  a  ruffled  crest :  the  forehead  was 
narrow  and  bony  and  a  thin  hooked  nose  stood  out  be- 
tween the  closeset  prominent  eyes  which  were  light  and 
inexpressive.  The  rivals  were  school  friends.  They  sat 
together  in  class,  knelt  together  in  the  chapel,  talked  to- 
gether after  beads  over  their  lunches.  As  the  fellows 
in  number  one  were  undistinguished  dullards  Stephen 
and  Heron  had  been  during  the  year  the  virtual  heads  of 
the  school.  It  was  they  who  went  up  to  the  rector  to- 
gether to  ask  for  a  free  day  or  to  get  a  fellow  off. 

—  O  by  the  way,  said  Heron  suddenly,  I  saw  your 
governor  going  in. 

[84]  ,' 


The  smile  waned  on  Stephen's  face.  Any  allusion 
made  to  his  father  by  a  fellow  or  by  a  master  put  his 
calm  to  rout  in  a  moment.  He  waited  in  timorous  silence 
to  hear  what  Heron  might  say  next.  Heron,  however, 
nudged  him  expressively  with  his  elbow  and  said : 

—  You're  a  sly  dog. 

—  Why  so  ?  said  Stephen.  ' 

—  You'd  think  butter  wouldn't  melt  in  your  mouth, 
said  Heron.    But  I'm  afraid  you're  a  sly  dog. 

—  Might  I  ask  you  what  you  are  talking  about  ?  said 
Stephen  urbanely. 

—  Indeed  you  might,  answered  Heron.  We  saw  her, 
Wallis,  didn't  we?  And  deucedly  pretty  she  is  too. 
And  inquisitive!  And  what  part  does  Stephen  take, 
Mr  Dedalusf  And  will  Stephen  not  sing,  Mr  Dedalus? 
Your  governor  was  staring  at  her  through  that  eyeglass 
of  his  for  all  he  was  worth  so  that  I  think  the  old  man 
has  found  you  out  too.  I  wouldn't  care  a  bit,  by  Jove. 
She's  ripping,  isn't  she,  Wallis? 

—  Not  half  bad,  answered  Wallis  quietly  as  he  placed 
his  holder  once  more  in  a  corner  of  his  mouth. 

A  shaft  of  momentary  anger  flew  through  Stephen's 
mind  at  these  indelicate  allusions  in  the  hearing  of  a 
stranger.  For  him  there  was  nothing  amusing  in  a  girl 's 
interest  and  regard.  All  day  he  had  thought  of  nothing 
but  their  leavetaking  on  the  steps  of  the  tram  at  Harold's 
Cross,  the  stream  of  moody  emotions  it  had  made  to 
course  through  him,  and  the  poem  he  had  written  about 
it.  All  day  he  had  imagined  a  new  meeting  with  her 
for  he  knew  that  she  was  to  come  to  the  play.  The  old 
restless  moodiness  had  again  filled  his  breast  as  it  had 
done  on  the  night  of  the  party  but  had  not  found  an  out- 
let in  verse.    The  growth  and  knowledge  of  two  years 

[85] 


of  boyhood  stood  between  them  and  now,  forbidding  such 
an  outlet :  and  all  day  the  stream  of  gloomy  tenderness 
within  him  had  started  forth  and  returned  upon  itself 
in  dark  courses  and  eddies,  wearying  him  in  the  end 
until  the  pleasantry  of  the  prefect  and  the  painted  little 
boy  had  drawn  from  him  a  movement  of  impatience. 

—  So  you  may  as  well  admit,  Heron  went  on,  that 
we've  fairly  found  you  out  this  time.  You  can't  play 
the  saint  on  ine  any  more,  that's  one  sure  five. 

A  soft  peal  of  mirthless  laughter  escaped  from  his 
lips  and,  bending  down  as  before,  he  struck  Stephen 
lightly  across  the  calf  of  the  leg  with  his  cane,  as  if  in 
jesting  reproof. 

Stephen's  movement  of  anger  had  already  passed. 
He  was  neither  flattered  nor  confused  but  simply  wished 
the  banter  to  end.  He  scarcely  resented  what  had  seemed 
to  him  a  silly  indelicateness  for  he  knew  that  the  ad- 
venture in  his  mind  stood  in  no  danger  from  these  words : 
and  his  face  mirrored  his  rival's  false  smile. 

—  Admit !  repeated  Heron,  striking  him  again  with  his 
cane  across  the  calf  of  the  leg. 

The  stroke  was  playful  but  not  so  lightly  given  as  the 
first  one  had  been.  Stephen  felt  the  skin  tingle  and 
glow  slightly  and  almost  painlessly;  and,  bowing  sub- 
missively, as  if  to  meet  his  companion's  jesting  mood, 
began  to  recite  the  Confiteor.  The  episode  ended  well 
for  both  Heron  and  Wallis  laughed  indulgently  at  the 
irreverence. 

The  confession  came  only  from  Stephen's  lips  and, 
while  they  spoke  the  words,  a  sudden  memory  had 
carried  him  to  another  scene  called  up,  as  if  by  magic, 
at  the  moment  when  he  had  noted  the  faint  cruel  dimples 
at  the  corners  of  Heron's  smiling  lips  and  had  felt  the 

[86] 


familiar  stroke  of  the  cane  against  his  calf  and  had 
heard  the  familiar  word  of  admonition : 

—  Admit. 

It  was  towards  the  close  of  his  first  term  in  the  college 
when  he  was  in  number  six.  His  sensitive  nature  was 
still  smarting  under  the  lashes  of  an  undivined  and 
squalid  way  of  life.  His  soul  was  still  disquieted  and 
cast  down  by  the  dull  phenomenon  of  Dublin.  He  had 
emerged  from  a  two  years'  spell  of  reverie  to  find  him- 
self in  the  midst  of  a  new  scene,  every  event  and  figure 
of  which  affected  him  intimately,  disheartened  him  or 
allured  and,  whether  alluring  or  disheartening,  filled  him 
always  with  unrest  and  bitter  thoughts.  All  the  leisure 
which  his  school  life  left  him  was  passed  iii  the  com- 
pany of  subversive  writers  whose  gibes  and  violence  of 
speech  set  up  a  ferment  in  his  brain  before  they  passed 
out  of  it  into  his  crude  writings. 

The  essay  was  for  him  the  chief  labour  of  his  week 
and  every  Tuesday,  as  he  marched  from  home  to  the 
school,  he  read  his  fate  in  the  incidents  of  the  way,  pitting 
himself  against  some  figure  ahead  of  him  and  quickening 
his  pace  to  outstrip  it  before  a  certain  goal  was  reached 
or  planting  his  steps  scrupulously  in  the  spaces  of  the 
patchwork  of  the  pathway  and  telling  himself  that  he 
would  be  first  and  not  first  in  the  weekly  essay. 

On  a  certain  Tuesday  the  course  of  his  triumphs  was 
rudely  broken.  Mr  Tate,  the  English  master,  pointed 
his  finger  at  him  and  said  bluntly : 

—  This  fellow  has  heresy  in  his  essay. 

A  hush  fell  on  the  class.  Mr  Tate  did  not  break  it 
but  dug  with  his  hand  between  his  thighs  while  his 
heavily  starched  linen  creaked  about  his  neck  and  wrists. 

[87] 


Stephen  did  not  look  up.  It  was  a  raw  spring  morning 
and  his  eyes  were  still  smarting  and  weak.  He  was 
conscious  of  failure  and  of  detection,  of  the  squalor  of 
his  own  mind  and  home,  and  felt  against  his  neck  the 
raw  edge  of  his  turned  and  jagged  collar. 

A  short  loud  laugh  from  Mr  Tate  set  the  class  more 
at  ease. 

—  Perhaps  you  didn't  know  that,  he  said. 

—  Where?  asked  Stephen. 

Mr  Tate  withdrew  his  delving  hand  and  spread  out 
the  essay. 

—  Here.  It's  about  the  Creator  and  the  soul.  Rrm 
.  .  .  rrm  .  .  .  rrm.  .  .  .  Ah!  without  a  possibility  of 
ever  approaching  Clearer.    That's  heresy. 

Stephen  murmured: 

—  I  meant  without  a  possibility  of  ever  reaching. 

It  was  a  submission  and  Mr  Tate,  appeased,  folded  up 
the  essay  and  passed  it  across  to  him,  saying : 

—  O  .  .  .  Ah!  ever  reaching.    That's  another  story. 

But  the  class  was  not  so  soon  appeased.  Though  no- 
body spoke  to  him  of  the  affair  after  class  he  could  feel 
about  him  a  vague  general  malignant  joy. 

A  few  nights  after  this  public  chiding  he  was  walking 
with  a  letter  along  the  Drumcondra  Road  when  he  heard 
a  voice  cry: 

—  Halt! 

He  turned  and  saw  three  boys  of  his  own  class  coming 
towards  him  in  the  dusk.  It  was  Heron  who  had  called 
out  and,  as  he  marched  forward  between  his  two  at- 
tendants, he  cleft  the  air  before  him  with  a  thin  cane, 
in  time  to  their  steps.  Boland,  his  friend,  marched  be- 
side him,  a  large  grin  on  his  face,  while  Nash  came  on  a 

[88] 


few  steps  behind,  blowing  from  the  pace  and  wagging 
his  great  red  head. 

As  soon  as  the  boys  had  turned  into  Clonliffe  Koad 
together  they  began  to  speak  about  books  and  writers, 
saying  what  books  they  were  reading  and  how  many 
books  there  were  in  their  fathers'  bookcases  at  home. 
Stephen  listened  to  them  in  some  wonderment  for  Boland 
was  the  dunce  and  Nash  the  idler  of  the  class.  In  fact 
after  some  talk  about  their  favourite  writers  Nash  de- 
clared for  Captain  Marryat  who,  he  said,  was  the  greatest 
writer. 

—  Fudge!  said  Heron.  Ask  Dedalus.  Who  is  the 
greatest  writer,  Dedalus  ? 

Stephen  noted  the  mockery  in  the  question  and  said : 

—  Of  prose  do  you  mean  ? 

—  Yes. 

—  Newman,  I  think. 

—  Is  it  Cardinal  Newman  ?  asked  Boland. 

—  Yes,  answered  Stephen. 

The  grin  broadened  on  Nash's  freckled  face  as  he 
turned  to  Stephen  and  said : 

—  And  do  you  like  Cardinal  Newman,  Dedalus  ? 

—  0,  many  say  that  Newman  has  the  best  prose  style. 
Heron  said  to  the  other  two  in  explanation;  of  course 
he's  not  a  poet. 

—  And  who  is  the  best  poet,  Heron  ?  asked  Boland. 

—  Lord  Tennyson,  of  course,  answered  Heron. 

—  O,  yes.  Lord  Tennyson,  said  Nash.  We  have  all 
his  poetry  at  home  in  a  book. 

At  this  Stephen  forgot  the  silent  vows  he  had  been 
making  and  burst  out : 

—  Tennyson  a  poet!    Why,  he's  only  a  rhymester! 

[89] 


—  0,  get  out!  said  Heron.  Everyone  knows  that 
Tennyson  is  the  greatest  poet. 

—  And  who  do  you  think  is  the  greatest  poet?  asked 
Boland,  nudging  his  neighbour. 

—  Byron,  of  course,  answered  Stephen. 

Heron  gave  the  lead  and  all  three  joined  in  a  scornful 
laugh. 

—  What  are  you  laughing  at?  asked  Stephen. 

—  You,  said  Heron.  Byron  the  greatest  poet!  He's 
only  a  poet  for  uneducated  people. 

—  He  must  be  a  fine  poet !  said  Boland. 

—  You  may  keep  your  mouth  shut,  said  Stephen,  turn- 
ing on  him  boldly.  All  you  know  about  poetry  is  what 
you  wrote  up  on  the  slates  in  the  yard  and  were  going 
to  be  sent  to  the  loft  for. 

Boland,  in  fact,  was  said  to  have  written  on  the  slates 
in  the  yard  a  couplet  about  a  classmate  of  his  who  often 
rode  home  from,  the  college  on  a  pony : 

As  Tyson  was  riding  into  Jerusalem 
He  fell  and  hurt  his  Alec  Kafoozelum, 

This  thrust  put  the  two  lieutenants  to  silence  but 
Heron  went  on : 

—  In  any  case  Byron  was  a  heretic  and  immoral  too. 

—  I  don't  care  what  he  was,  cried  Stephen  hotly. 

—  You  don't  care  whether  he  was  a  heretic  or  not? 
said  Nash. 

—  What  do  you  know  about  it  ?  shouted  Stephen.  You 
never  read  a  line  of  anything  in  your  life  except  a  trans 
or  Boland  either. 

—  I  know  that  Byron  was  a  bad  man,  said  Boland. 

—  Here,  catch  hold  of  this  heretic,  Heron  called  out. 

[90] 


In  a  moment  Stephen  was  a  prisoner. 

—  Tate  made  you  buck  up  the  other  day,  Heron  went 
on,  about  the  heresy  in  your  essay. 

—  Ill  tell  him  tomorrow,  said  Boland. 

— ^Will  you?  said  Stephen.  You'd  be  afraid  to  open 
your  lips. 

—  Afraid? 

—  Ay.    Afraid  of  your  life. 

—  Behave  yourself!  cried  Heron,  cutting  at  Stephen's 
legs  with  his  cane. 

It  was  the  signal  for  their  onset.  Nash  pinioned  his 
arms  behind  while  Boland  seized  a  long  cabbage  stump 
which  was  lying  in  the  gutter.  Struggling  and  kicking 
under  the  cuts  of  the  cane  and  the  blows  of  the  knotty 
stump  Stephen  was  borne  back  against  a  barbed  wire 
fence. 

—  Admit  that  Byron  was  no  good. 

—  No. 

—  Admit. 

—  No. 

—  Admit. 

—  No.    No. 

At  last  after  a  fury  of  plunges  he  wrenched  himself 
free.  His  tormentors  set  off  towards  Jones's  Road, 
laughing  and  jeering  at  him,  while  he,  half  blinded  with 
tears,  stumbled  on,  clenching  his  fists  madly  and  sobbing. 

"While  he  was  still  repeating  the  Confiteor  amid  the 
indulgent  laughter  of  his  hearers  and  while  the  scenes 
of  that  malignant  episode  were  still  passing  sharply  and 
swiftly  before  his  mind  he  wondered  why  he  bore  no 
malice  now  to  those  who  had  tormented  him.  He  had 
not  forgotten  a  whit  of  their  cowardice  and  cruelty  but 
the  memory  of  it  called  forth  no  anger  from  him.    All 

[91] 


the  description  of  fierce  love  and  hatred  which  he  had 
met  in  books  had  seemed  to  him  therefore  unreal.  Even 
that  night  as  he  stumbled  homewards  along  Jones's  Road 
he  had  felt  that  some  power  was  divesting  him  of  that 
sudden  woven  anger  as  easily  as  a  fruit  is  divested  of  its 
soft  ripe  peel. 

He  remained  standing  with  his  two  companions  at  the 
end  of  the  shed  listening  idly  to  their  talk  or  to  the  bursts 
of  applause  in  the  theatre.  She  was  sitting  there  among 
the  others  perhaps  waiting  for  him  to  appear.  He  tried 
to  recall  her  appearance  but  could  not.  He  could  re- 
member only  that  she  had  worn  a  shawl  about  her  head 
like  a  cowl  and  that  her  dark  eyes  had  invited  and  un- 
nerved him.  He  wondered  had  he  been  in  her  thoughts 
or  she  had  been  in  his.  Then  in  the  dark  and  unseen  by 
the  other  two  he  rested  the  tips  of  the  fingers  of  one 
hand  upon  the  palm  of  the  other  hand,  scarcely  touching 
it  lightly.  But  the  pressure  of  her  fingers  had  been 
lighter  and  steadier:  and  suddenly  the  memory  of  their 
touch  traversed  his  brain  and  body  like  an  invisible  wave. 

A  boy  came  towards  them,  running  along  under  the 
shed.     He  was  excited  and  breathless. 

—  0,  Dedalus,  he  cried,  Doyle  is  in  a  great  bake  about 
you.  You're  to  go  in  at  once  and  get  dressed  for  the 
play.    Hurry  up,  you  better. 

—  He's  coming  now,  said  Heron  to  the  messenger  with 
a  haughty  drawl,  when  he  wants  to. 

The  boy  turned  to  Heron  and  repeated : 

—  But  Doyle  is  in  an  awful  bake. 

—  Will  you  tell  Doyle  with  my  best  compliments  that 
I  damned  his  eyes  ?  answered  Heron. 

—  Well,  I  must  go  now,  said  Stephen,  who  cared  little 
for  such  points  of  honour. 

[92] 


—  I  wouldn't,  said  Heron,  damn  me  if  I  would. 
That's  no  way  to  send  for  one  of  the  senior  boys.  In 
a  bake,  indeed!  I  think  it's  quite  enough  that  you're 
taking  a  part  in  his  bally  old  play. 

This  spirit  of  quarrelsome  comradeship  which  he  had 
observed  lately  in  his  rival  had  not  seduced  Stephen  from 
his  habits  of  quiet  obedience.  He  mistrusted  the  tur- 
bulence and  doubted  the  sincerity  of  such  comradeship 
which  seemed  to  him  a  sorry  anticipation  of  manhood. 
The  question  of  honour  here  raised  was,  like  all  such 
questions,  trivial  to  him.  While  his  mind  had  been  pur- 
suing its  intangible  phantoms  and  turning  in  irresolution 
from  such  pursuit  he  had  heard  about  him  the  constant 
voices  of  his  father  and  of  his  masters,  urging  him  to  be 
a  gentleman  above  all  things  and  urging  him  to  be  a 
good  catholic  above  all  things.  These  voices  had  now 
come  to  be  hollow  sounding  in  his  ears.  When  the  gym- 
nasium had  been  opened  he  had  heard  another  voice 
urging  him  to  be  strong  and  manly  and  healthy  and  when 
the  movement  towards  national  revival  had  begun  to  be 
felt  in  the  college  yet  another  voice  had  bidden  him  be 
true  to  his  country  and  help  to  raise  up  her  language 
and  tradition.  In  the  profane  world,  as  he  foresaw,  a 
worldly  voice  would  bid  him  raise  up  his  father's  fallen 
state  by  his  labours  and,  meanwhile,  the  voice  of  his 
school-comrades  urged  him  to  be  a  decent  fellow,  to  shield 
others  from  blame  or  to  beg  them  off  and  to  do  his  best 
to  get  free  days  for  the  school.  And  it  was  the  din  of 
all  these  hollowsounding  voices  that  made  him  halt  ir- 
resolutely in  the  pursuit  of  phantoms.  He  gave  them 
ear  only  for  a  time  but  he  was  happy  only  when  he  was 
far  from  them,  beyond  their  call,  alone  or  in  the  company 
of  phantasmal  comrades. 

[93] 


In  the  vestry  a  plump  freshfaeed  Jesuit  and  an  elderly 
man,  in  shabby  blue  clothes,  were  dabbling  in  a  case  of 
paints  and  chalks.  The  boys  who  had  been  painted 
walked  about  or  stood  still  awkwardly,  touching  their 
faces  in  a  gingerly  fashion  with  their  furtive  fingertips. 
In  the  middle  of  the  vestry  a  young  Jesuit,  who  was  then 
on  a  visit  to  the  college,  stood  rocking  himself  rhythmi- 
cally from  the  tips  of  his  toes  to  his  heels  and  back  again, 
his  hands  thrust  well  forward  into  his  side  pockets.  His 
small  head  set  off  with  glossy  red  curls  and  his  newly 
shaven  face  agreed  well  with  the  spotless  decency  of  his 
soutane  and  with  his  spotless  shoes. 

As  he  watched  this  swaying  form  and  tried  to  read 
for  himself  the  legend  of  the  priest's  mocking  smile  there 
came  into  Stephen's  memory  a  saying  which  he  had  heard 
from  his  father  before  he  had  been  sent  to  Clongowes, 
that  you  could  always  tell  a  Jesuit  by  the  style  of  his 
clothes.  At  the  same  moment  he  thought  he  saw  a  like- 
ness between  his  father's  mind  and  that  of  this  smiling 
welldressed  priest :  and  he  was  aware  of  some  desecration 
of  the  priest's  oflSce  or  of  the  vestry  itself  whose  silence 
was  now  routed  by  loud  talk  and  joking  and  its  air 
pungent  with  the  smells  of  the  gasjets  and  the  grease. 

While  his  forehead  was  being  wrinkled  and  his  jaws 
painted  black  and  blue  by  the  elderly  man  he  listened 
distractedly  to  the  voice  of  the  plump  young  Jesuit  which 
bade  him  speak  up  and  make  his  points  clearly.  He 
could  hear  the  band  playing  The  Lily  of  Killarney  and 
knew  that  in  a  few  moments  the  curtain  would  go  up. 
He  felt  no  stage  fright  but  the  thought  of  the  part  he 
had  to  play  humiliated  him.  A  remembrance  of  some 
of  his  lines  made  a  sudden  flush  rise  to  his  painted 
cheeks.    He  saw  her  serious  alluring  eyes  watching  him 

[94] 


from  among  the  audience  and  their  image  at  once  swept 
away  his  scruples,  leaving  his  will  compact.  Another 
nature  seemed  to  have  been  lent  him :  the  infection  of  the 
excitement  and  youth  about  him  entered  into  and  trans- 
formed his  moody  mistrustfulness.  For  one  rare  mo- 
ment he  seemed  to  be  clothed  in  the  real  apparel  of  boy- 
hood :  and,  as  he  stood  in  the  wings  among  the  other 
players,  he  shared  the  common  mirth  amid  which  the 
drop  scene  was  hauled  upwards  by  two  ablebodied  priests 
with  violent  jerks  and  all  awry. 

A  few  moments  after  he  found  himself  on  the  stage 
amid  the  garish  gas  and  the  dim  scenery,  acting  before 
the  innumerable  faces  of  the  void.  It  surprised  him  to 
see  that  the  play  which  he  had  known  at  rehearsals  for  a 
disjointed  lifeless  thing  had  suddenly  assumed  a  life  of 
its  own.  It  seemed  now  to  play  itself,  he  and  his  fellow 
actors  aiding  it  with  their  parts.  When  the  curtain  fell 
on  the  last  scene  he  heard  the  void  filled  with  applause 
and,  through  a  rift  in  a  side  scene,  saw  the  simple  body 
before  which  he  had  acted  magically  deformed,  the  void 
of  faces  breaking  at  all  points  and  falling  asunder  into 
busy  groups. 

He  left  the  stage  quickly  and  rid  himself  of  his  mum- 
mery and  passed  out  through  the  chapel  into  the  college 
garden.  Now  that  the  play  was  over  his  nerves  cried 
for  some  further  adventure.  He  hurried  onwards  as  if 
to  overtake  it.  The  doors  of  the  theatre  were  all  open 
and  the  audience  had  emptied  out.  On  the  lines  which 
he  had  fancied  the  moorings  of  an  ark  a  few  lanterns 
swung  in  the  night  breeze,  flickering  cheerlessly.  He 
mounted  the  steps  from  the  garden  in  haste,  eager  that 
some  prey  should  not  elude  him,  and  forced  his  way 
through  the  crowd  in  the  hall  and  past  the  two  Jesuits 

[95] 


who  stood  watching  the  exodus  and  bowing  and  shaking 
hands  with  the  visitors.  He  pushed  onward  nervously, 
feigning  a  still  greater  haste  and  faintly  conscious  of  the 
smiles  and  stares  and  nudges  which  his  powdered  head 
left  in  its  wake. 

When  he  came  out  on  the  steps  he  saw  his  family 
waiting  for  him  at  the  first  lamp.  In  a  glance  he  noted 
that  every  figure  of  the  group  was  familiar  and  ran  down 
the  steps  angrily. 

—  I  have  to  leave  a  message  down  in  George's  Street, 
he  said  to  his  father  quickly.     I'll  be  home  after  you. 

Without  waiting  for  his  father's  questions  he  ran 
across  the  road  and  began  to  walk  at  breakneck  speed 
down  the  hill.  He  hardly  knew  where  he  was  walking. 
Pride  and  hope  and  desire  like  crushed  herbs  in  his  heart 
sent  up  vapours  of  maddening  incense  before  the  eyes 
of  his  mind.  He  strode  down  the  hill  amid  the  tumult  of 
suddenrisen  vapours  of  wounded  pride  and  fallen  hope 
and  baffled  desire.  They  streamed  upwards  before  his 
anguished  eyes  in  dense  and  maddening  fumes  and 
passed  away  above  him  till  at  last  the  air  was  clear  and 
cold  again. 

A  film  still  veiled  his  eyes  but  they  burned  no  longer. 
A  power,  akin  to  that  which  had  often  made  anger  or 
resentment  fall  from  him,  brought  his  steps  to  rest.  He 
stood  still  and  gazed  up  at  the  sombre  porch  of  the 
morgue  and  from  that  to  the  dark  cobbled  laneway  at 
its  side.  He  saw  the  word  Lotts  on  the  wall  of  the  lane 
and  breathed  slowly  the  rank  heavy  air. 

—  That  is  horse  piss  and  rotted  straw,  he  thought. 

It  is  a  good  odour  to  breathe.     It  will  calm  my  heart. 

My  heart  is  quite  calm  now.    I  will  go  back. 
#        *        *        * 

[96] 


Stephen  was  once  again  seated  beside  his  father  in  the 
^.orner  of  a  railway  carriage  at  Kingsbridge.  He  was 
^.ravelling  with  his  father  by  the  night  mail  to  Cork. 
As  the  train  steamed  out  of  the  station  he  recalled  his 
childish  wonder  of  years  before  and  every  event  of  his 
first  day  at  Clongowes.  But  he  felt  no  wonder  now.  He 
saw  the  darkening  lands  slipping  away  past  him,  the 
silent  telegraphpoles  passing  his  window  swiftly  every 
fouf'  seconds,  the  little  glimmering  stations,  manned  by  a 
few  silent  sentries,  flung  by  the  mail  behind  her  and 
twi-^kling  for  a  moment  in  the  darkness  like  fiery  grains 
flung  backwards  by  a  runner. 

He  listened  without  sympathy  to  his  father's  evoca- 
tbn  of  Cork  and  of  scenes  of  his  youth  —  a  tale  broken 
by  sighs  or  draughts  from  his  pocket  flask  whenever  the 
image  of  some  dead  friend  appeared  in  it,  or  whenever 
the  evoker  remembered  suddenly  the  purpose  of  his 
actual  visit.  Stephen  heard,  but  could  feel  no  pity. 
The  images  of  the  dead  were  all  strangers  to  him  save 
that  of  Uncle  Charles,  an  image  which  had  lately  been 
fading  out  of  memory.  He  knew,  however,  that  his 
father's  property  was  going  to  be  sold  by  auction  and 
in  the  manner  of  his  own  dispossession  he  felt  the  world 
give  the  lie  rudely  to  his  phantasy. 

At  Maryborough  he  fell  asleep.  When  he  awoke  the 
train  had  passed  out  of  Mallow  and  his  father  was 
stretched  asleep  on  the  other  seat.  The  cold  light  of 
the  dawn  lay  over  the  country,  over  the  unpeopled  fields 
and  the  closed  cottages.  The  terror  of  sleep  fascinated 
his  mind  as  he  watched  the  silent  country  or  heard  from 
time  to  time  his  father's  deep  breath  or  sudden  sleepy 
movement.  The  neighbourhood  of  unseen  sleepers  filled 
him  with  strange  dread,  as  though  they  could  harm  him, 

[97] 


and  he  prayed  that  the  day  might  come  quickly.  His 
prayer,  addressed  neither  to  God  nor  saint,  began  with  a 
shiver,  as  the  chilly  morning  breeze  crept  through  the 
chink  of  the  carriage  door  to  his  feet,  and  ended  in  a 
trail  of  foolish  words  which  he  made  to  fit  the  insistent 
rhythm  of  the  train;  and  silently,  at  intervals  of  four 
seconds,  the  telegraphpoles  held  the  galloping  notes  of 
the  music  between  punctual  bars.  This  furious  music 
allayed  his  dread  and,  leaning  against  the  window  ledge, 
he  let  his  eyelids  close  again. 

They  drove  in  a  jingle  across  Cork  while  it  was  still 
early  morning  and  Stephen  finished  his  sleep  in  a  bed- 
room of  the  Victoria  Hotel.  The  bright  warm  sunlight 
was  streaming  through  the  window  and  he  could  hear  the 
din  of  traffic.  His  father  was  standing  before  the  dress- 
ingtable,  examining  his  hair  and  face  and  moustache 
with  great  care,  craning  his  neck  across  the  water  jug 
and  drawing  it  back  sideways  to  see  the  better.  While 
he  did  so  he  sang  softly  to  himself  with  quaint  accent  and 
phrasing : 


<< 


li 


'Tis  youth  and  folly 
Makes  young  men  marry. 
So  here,  my  love.  111 

No  longer  stay. 
What  can't  be  cured,  sure, 
Must  be  injured,  sure, 

So  111  go  to  Amerikay. 

My  love  she's  handsome, 
My  love  she 's  bony : 
She's  like  good  whisky 
When  it  is  new; 
[98] 


But  when  'tis  old 
And  growing  cold 
It  fades  and  dies  like 
The  mountain  dew." 

The  consciousness  of  the  warm  sunny  city  outside  his 
window  and  the  tender  tremors  with  which  his  father's 
voice  festooned  the  strange  sad  happy  air,  drove  off  all 
the  mists  of  the  night's  ill  humour  from  Stephen's  brain. 
He  got  up  quickly  to  dress  and,  when  the  song  had 
ended,  said: 

—  That's  much  prettier  than  any  of  your  other  come- 
all-yous. 

—  Do  you  think  so  ?  asked  Mr  Dedalus. 

—  I  like  it,  said  Stephen. 

—  It's  a  pretty  old  air,  said  Mr  Dedalus,  twirling  the 
points  of  his  moustache.  Ah,  but  you  should  have  heard 
Mick  Lacy  sing  it!  Poor  Mick  Lacy!  He  had  little 
turns  for  it,  grace  notes  he  used  to  put  in  that  I  haven't 
got.  That  was  the  boy  who  could  sing  a  come-all-you, 
if  you  like. 

Mr  Dedalus  had  ordered  drisheens  for  breakfast  and 
during  the  meal  he  cross-examined  the  waiter  for  local 
news.  For  the  most  part  they  spoke  at  cross  purposes 
when  a  name  was  mentioned,  the  waiter  having  in  mind 
the  present  holder  and  Mr  Dedalus  his  father  or  perhaps 
his  grandfather. 

Well,  I  hope  they  haven't  moved  the  Queen's  College 
anyhow,  said  Mr  Dedalus,  for  I  want  to  show  it  to  this 
youngster  of  mine. 

Along  the  Mardyke  the  trees  were  in  bloom.  They 
entered  the  grounds  of  the  college  and  were  led  by  the 
garrulous    porter    across    the    quadrangle.    But    their 

[99] 


progress  across  the  gravel  was  brought  to  a  halt  after 
every  dozen  or  so  paces  by  some  reply  of  the  porter 's  — 

—  Ah,  do  you  tell  me  so?  And  is  poor  Pottlebelly 
dead? 

—  Yes,  sir.     Dead,  sir. 

During  these  halts  Stephen  stood  awkwardly  behind 
the  two  men,  weary  of  the  subject  and  waiting  restlessly 
for  the  slow  march  to  begin  again.  By  the  time  they 
had  crossed  the  quadrangle  his  restlessness  had  risen  to 
fever.  He  wondered  how  his  father,  whom  he  knew  for 
a  shrewd  suspicious  man,  could  be  duped  by  the  servile 
manners  of  the  porter;  and  the  lively  southern  speech 
which  had  entertained  him  all  the  morning  now  irritated 
his  ears. 

They  passed  into  the  anatomy  theatre  where  Mr 
Dedalus,  the  porter  aiding  him,  searched  the  desks  for 
his  initials.  Stephen  remained  in  the  background,  de- 
pressed more  than  ever  by  the  darkness  and  silence  of 
the  theatre  and  by  the  air  it  wore  of  jaded  and  formal 
study.  On  the  desk  he  read  the  word  Foetus  cut  several 
times  in  the  dark  stained  wood.  The  sudden  legend 
startled  his  blood :  he  seemed  to  feel  the  absent  students 
of  the  college  about  him'  and  to  shrink  from  their 
company.  A  vision  of  their  life,  which  his  father's 
words  had  been  powerless  to  evoke,  sprang  up  before 
him  out  of  the  word  cut  in  the  desk.  A  broad  shouldered 
student  with  a  moustache  was  cutting  in  the  letters  with 
a  jack  knife,  seriously.  Other  students  stood  or  sat  near 
him  laughing  at  his  handiwork.  One  jogged  his  elbow. 
The  big  student  turned  on  him,  frowning.  He  was 
dressed  in  loose  grey  clothes  and  had  tan  boots. 

Stephen's  name  was  called.  He  hurried  down  the 
steps  of  the  theatre  so  as  to  be  as  far  away  from  the 

[100] 


vision  as  he  could  be  and,  peering  closely  at  his  father's 
initials,  hid  his  flushed  face. 

But  the  word  and  the  vision  capered  before  his  eyes 
as  he  walked  back  across  the  quadrangle  and  towards 
the  college  gate.  It  shocked  him  to  find  in  the  outer 
world  a  trace  of  what  he  had  deemed  till  then  a  brutish 
and  individual  malady  of  his  own  mind.  His  monstrous 
reveries  came  thronging  into  his  memory.  They  too 
had  sprung  up  before  him,  suddenly  and  furiously,  out 
of  mere  words.  He  had  soon  given  in  to  them,  and 
allowed  them  to  sweep  across  and  abase  his  intellect, 
wondering  always  where  they  came  from,  from  what  den 
of  monstrous  images,  and  always  weak  and  humble  to- 
wards others,  restless  and  sickened  of  himself  when  they 
had  swept  over  him. 

—  Ay,  bedad!  And  there's  the  Groceries  sure 
enough!  cried  Mr  Dedalus.  You  often  heard  me  speak 
of  the  Groceries,  didn't  you,  Stephen.  Many's  the  time 
we  went  down  there  when  our  names  had  been  marked, 
a  crowd  of  us,  Harry  Peard  and  little  Jack  Mountain 
and  Bob  Dyas  and  Maurice  Moriarty,  the  Frenchman, 
and  Tom  0 'Grady  and  Mick  Lacy  that  I  told  you  of 
this  morning  and  Joey  Corbet  and  poor  little  good 
hearted  Johnny  Keevers  of  the  Tantiles. 

The  leaves  of  the  trees  along  the  Mardyke  were  astir 
and  whispering  in  the  sunlight.  A  team  of  cricketers 
passed,  agile  young  men  in  flannels  and  blazers,  one  of 
them  carrying  the  long  green  wicket  bag.  In  a  quiet 
by  street  a  German  band  of  five  players  in  faded  uni- 
forms and  with  battered  brass  instruments  was  playing 
to  an  audience  of  street  arabs  and  leisurely  messenger 
boys.  A  maid  in  a  white  cap  and  apron  was  watering 
a  box  of  plants  on  a  sill  which  shone  like  a  slab  of  lime- 

[101] 


stone  in  the  warm  glare.  From  another  window  open 
to  the  air  came  the  sound  of  a  piano,  scale  after  scale 
rising  into  the  treble. 

Stephen  walked  on  at  his  father's  side,  listening  to 
stories  he  had  heard  before,  hearing  again  the  names 
of  the  scattered  and  dead  revellers  who  had  been  the 
companions  of  his  father's  youth.  And  a  faint  sickness 
sighed  in  his  heart.  He  recalled  his  own  equivocal  posi- 
tion in  Belvedere,  a  free  boy,  a  leader  afraid  of  his  own 
authority,  proud  and  sensitive  and  suspicious,  battling 
against  the  squalor  of  his  life  and  against  the  riot  of  his 
mind.  The  letters  cut  in  the  stained  wood  of  the  desk 
stared  upon  him,  mocking  his  bodily  weakness  and  futile 
enthusiasms  and  making  him  loathe  himself  for  his  own 
mad  and  filthy  orgies.  The  spittle  in  his  throat  grew 
bitter  and  foul  to  swallow  and  the  faint  sickness  climbed 
to  his  brain  so  that  for  a  moment  he  closed  his  eyes  and 
walked  on  in  darkness. 

He  could  still  hear  his  father's  voice  — 
—  When  you  kick  out  for  yourself,  Stephen  —  as  I 
daresay  you  will  one  of  those  days  —  remember,  what- 
ever you  do,  to  mix  with  gentlemen.  When  I  was  a 
young  fellow  I  tell  you  I  enjoyed  myself.  I  mixed  with 
fine  decent  fellows.  Everyone  of  us  could  do  something. 
One  fellow  had  a  good  voice,  another  fellow  was  a  good 
actor,  another  could  sing  a  good  comic  song,  another 
was  a  good  oarsman  or  a  good  racket  player,  another 
could  tell  a  good  story  and  so  on.  We  kept  the  ball 
rolling  anyhow  and  enjoyed  ourselves  and  saw  a  bit  of 
life  and  we  were  none  the  worse  of  it  either.  But  we 
were  all  gentlemen,  Stephen  —  at  least  I  hope  we  were  — 
and  bloody  good  honest  Irishmen  too.  That's  the  kind 
of  fellows  I  want  you  to  associate  with,  fellows  of  the 

[102] 


right  kidney.  I'm  talking  to  you  as  a  friend,  Stephen. 
I  don't  believe  a  son  should  be  afraid  of  his  father.  No, 
I  treat  you  as  your  grandfather  treated  me  when  I  was 
a  young  chap.  We  were  more  like  brothers  than  father 
and  son.  I'll  never  forget  the  first  day  he  caught  me 
smoking.  I  was  standing  at  the  end  of  the  South 
Terrace  one  day  with  some  maneens  like  myself  and 
sure  we  thought  we  were  grand  fellows  because  we  had 
pipes  stuck  in  the  corners  of  our  mouths.  Suddenly  the 
governor  passed.  He  didn't  say  a  word,  or  stop  even. 
But  the  next  day,  Sunday,  we  were  out  for  a  walk 
together  and  when  we  were  coming  home  he  took  out 
his  cigar  case  and  said:  — By  the  by,  Simon,  I  didn't 
know  you  smoked,  or  something  like  that.  Of  course  I 
tried  to  carry  it  off  as  best  I  could.  — If  you  want  a 
good  smoke,  he  said,  try  one  of  these  cigars.  An  Ameri- 
can captain  made  me  a  present  of  them  last  night  in 
Queenstown. 

Stephen  heard  his  father's  voice  break  into  a  laugh 
which  was  almost  a  sob. 

—  He  was  the  handsomest  man  in  Cork  at  that  time, 
by  God  he  was !  The  women  used  to  stand  to  look  after 
him  in  the  street. 

He  heard  the  sob  passing  loudly  down  his  father's 
throat  and  opened  his  eyes  with  a  nervous  impulse. 
The  sunlight  breaking  suddenly  on  his  sight  turned  the 
sky  and  clouds  into  a  fantastic  world  of  sombre  masses 
with  lakelike  spaces  of  dark  rosy  light.  His  very  brain 
was  sick  and  powerless.  He  could  scarcely  interpret 
the  letters  of  the  signboards  of  the  shops.  By  his 
monstrous  way  of  life  he  seemed  to  have  put  himself 
beyond  the  limits  of  reality.  Nothing  moved  him  or 
spoke  to  him  from  the  real  world  unless  he  heard  in  it 

[103] 


an  echo  of  the  infuriated  cries  within  him.  He  could 
respond  to  no  earthly  or  human  appeal,  dumb  and  in- 
sensible to  the  call  of  summer  and  gladness  and  com- 
panionship, wearied  and  dejected  by  his  father's  voice. 
He  could  scarcely  recognise  as  his  his  own  thoughts,  and 
repeated  slowly  to  himself : 

—  I  am  Stephen  Dedalus.  I  am  walking  beside  my 
father  whose  name  is  Simon  Dedalus.  We  are  in  Cork, 
in  Ireland.  Cork  is  a  city.  Our  room  is  in  the  Victoria 
Hotel.  Victoria  and  Stephen  and  Simon.  Simon  and 
Stephen  and  Victoria.    Names. 

The  memory  of  his  childhood  suddenly  grew  dim.  He 
tried  to  call  forth  some  of  its  vivid  moments  but  could 
not.  He  recalled  only  names.  Dante,  Parnell,  Clane, 
Clongowes.  A  little  boy  had  been  taught  geography  by 
an  old  woman  who  kept  two  brushes  in  her  wardrobe. 
Then  he  had  been  sent  away  from  home  to  a  college,  he 
had  made  his  first  communion  and  eaten  slim  jim  out 
of  his  cricket  cap  and  watched  the  firelight  leaping  and 
dancing  on  the  wall  of  a  little  bedroom  in  the  infirmary 
and  dreamed  of  being  dead,  of  mass  being  said  for  him 
by  the  rector  in  a  black  and  gold  cope,  of  being  buried 
then  in  the  little  graveyard  of  the  community  off  the 
main  avenue  of  lines.  But  he  had  not  died  then.  Par- 
nell had  died.  There  had  been  no  mass  for  the  dead  in 
the  chapel,  and  no  procession.  He  had  not  died  but  he 
had  faded  out  like  a  film  in  the  sun.  He  had  been  lost 
or  had  wandered  out  of  existence  for  he  no  longer 
existed.  How  strange  to  think  of  him  passing  out  of 
existence  in  such  a  way,  not  by  death,  but  by  fading 
out  in  the  sun  or  by  being  lost  and  forgotten  somewhere 
in  the  universe !  It  was  strange  to  see  his  small  body 
appear  again  for  a  moment :  a  little  boy  in  a  grey  belted 

1104] 


suit.  His  hands  were  in  his  side  pockets  and  his 
trousers  were  tucked  in  at  the  knees  by  elastic  bands. 

On  the  evening  of  the  day  on  which  the  property  was 
sold  Stephen  followed  his  father  meekly  about  the  city 
from  bar  to  bar.  To  the  sellers  in  the  market,  to  the 
barmen  and  barmaids,  to  the  beggars  who  importuned 
him  for  a  lob  Mr  Dedalus  told  the  same  tale,  that  he 
was  an  old  Corkonian,  that  he  had  been  trying  for  thirty 
years  to  get  rid  of  his  Cork  accent  up  in  Dublin  and 
that  Peter  Pickackafax  beside  him  was  his  eldest  son 
but  that  he  was  only  a  Dublin  jackeen. 

They  had  set  out  early  in  the  morning  from  New- 
combe's  coffeehouse,  where  Mr  Dedalus'  cup  had  rattled 
noisily  against  its  saucer,  and  Stephen  had  tried  to  cover 
that  shameful  sign  of  his  father's  drinking-bout  of  the 
night  before  by  moving  his  chair  and  coughing.  One 
humiliation  had  succeeded  another  —  the  false  smiles  of 
the  market  sellers,  the  curvetings  and  oglings  of  the  bar- 
maids with  whom  his  father  flirted,  the  compliments  and 
encouraging  words  of  his  father's  friends.  They  had 
told  him  that  he  had  a  great  look  of  his  grandfather  and 
Mr  Dedalus  had  agreed  that  he  was  an  ugly  likeness. 
They  had  unearthed  traces  of  a  Cork  accent  in  his  speech 
and  made  him  admit  that  the  Lee  was  a  much  finer  river 
than  the  Liffey.  One  of  them,  in  order  to  put  his  Latin 
to  the  proof,  had  made  him  translate  short  passages  from 
Dilectus,  and  asked  him  whether  it  was  correct  to  say: 
Tempora  mutanhtr  nos  et  muiamur  in  illis,  or  Tempora 
muiantur  et  nos  mutamur  in  illis.  Another,  a  brisk  old 
man,  whom  Mr  Dedalus  called  Johnny  Cashman,  had 
covered  him  with  confusion  by  asking  him  to  say  which 
were  prettier,  the  Dublin  girls  or  the  Cork  girls. 

—  He 's  not  that  way  built,  said  Mr  Dedalus.  Leave 
[105] 


him  alone.     He's  a  levelheaded  thinking  boy  who  doesn't 
bother  his  head  about  that  kind  of  nonsense. 

—  Then  he's  not  his  father's  son,  said  the  little  old 
man. 

—  I  don't  know,  I'm  sure,  said  Mr  Dedalus,  smiling 
complacently. 

— ^Tour  father,  said  the  little  old  man  to  Stephen, 
was  the  boldest  flirt  in  the  city  of  Cork  in  his  day.  Do 
you  know  that? 

Stephen  looked  down  and  studied  the  tiled  floor  of 
the  bar  into  which  they  had  drifted. 

—  Now  don't  be  putting  ideas  into  his  head,  said  Mr 
Dedalus.    Leave  him  to  his  Maker. 

—  Yerra,  sure  I  wouldn't  put  any  ideas  into  his  head. 
I'm  old  enough  to  be  his  grandfather.  And  I  am  a 
grandfather,  said  the  little  old  man  to  Stephen.  Do  you 
know  that? 

—  Are  you?  asked  Stepheij. 

—  Bedad  I  am,  said  the  little  old  man.  I  have  two 
bouncing  grandchildren  out  at  Sunday's  Well.  Now, 
then !  What  age  do  you  think  I  am !  And  I  remember 
seeing  your  grandfather  in  his  red  coat  riding  out  to 
hounds.    That  was  before  you  were  bom. 

—  Ay,  or  thought  of,  said  Mr  Dedalus. 

—  Bedad  I  did,  repeated  the  little  old  man.  And, 
more  than  that,  I  can  remember  even  your  great  grand- 
father, old  John  Stephen  Dedalus,  and  a  fierce  old  fire- 
eater  he  was.    Now,  then!    There's  a  memory  for  you! 

—  That's  three  generations  —  four  generations,  said 
another  of  the  company.  Why,  Johnny  Cashman,  you 
must  be  nearing  the  century. 

—  Well,  I'll  tell  you  the  truth,  said  the  little  old  man. 
I'm  just  twentyseven  years  of  age. 

[106] 


—  We're  as  old  as  we  feel,  Johnny,  said  Mr  Dedalus. 

—  And  just  finish  what  you  have  there,  and  we'll  have 
another.  Here,  Tim  or  Tom  or  whatevei:  your  name  is, 
give  us  the  same  again  here.  By  God,  I  don't  feel  more 
than  eighteen  myself.  There's  that  son  of  mine  there 
not  half  my  age  and  I'm  a  better  man  than  he  is  any 
day  of  the  week. 

—  Draw  it  mild  now,  Dedalus.  I  think  it's  time  for 
you  to  take  a  back  seat,  said  the  gentleman  who  had 
spoken  before. 

—  No,  by  God!  asserted  Mr  Dedalus.  I'll  sing  a  tenor 
song  against  him  or  I'll  vault  a  fire-barred  gate  against 
him  or  I'll  run  with  him  after  the  hounds  across  the 
country  as  I  did  thirty  years  ago  along  with  the  Kerry 
Boy  and  the  best  man  for  it. 

—  But  he'll  beat  you  here,  said  the  little  old  man, 
tapping  his  forehead  and  raising  his  glass  to  drain  it. 

—  Well,  I  hope  he'll  be  as  good  a  man  as  his  father. 
That's  all  I  can  say,  said  Mr  Dedalus. 

—  If  he  is,  he'll  do,  said  the  little  old  man. 

—  And  thanks  be  to  God,  Johnny,  said  Mr  Dedalus, 
that  we  lived  so  long  and  did  so  little  harm. 

—  But  did  so  much  good,  Simon,  said  the  little  old 
man  gravely.  Thanks  be  to  God  we  lived  so  long  and 
did  so  much  good. 

Stephen  watched  the  three  glasses  being  raised  from 
the  counter  as  his  father  and  his  two  cronies  drank  to 
the  memory  of  their  past.  An  abyss  of  fortune  or  of 
temperament  sundered  him  from  them.  His  mind 
seemed  older  than  theirs :  it  shone  coldly  on  their  strifes 
and  happiness  and  regrets  like  a  moon  upon  a  younger 
earth.  No  life  or  youth  stirred  in  him  as  it  had  stirred 
in  them.    He  had  known  neither  the  pleasure  of  com- 

[107] 


panionship  with  others  nor  the  vigour  of  rude  male 
health  nor  filial  piety.  Nothing  stirred  within  his  soul 
but  a  cold  and  cruel  and  loveless  lust.  His  childhood 
was  dead  or  lost  and  with  it  his  soul  capable  of  simple 
joys  and  he  was  drifting  amid  life  like  the  barren  shell 
of  the  moon. 

**  Art  thou  pale  for  weariness 

Of  climbing  heaven  and  gazing  on  the  earth, 
Wandering  companionless  ?  ..." 

He  repeated  to  himself  the  lines  of  Shelley's  fragment. 
Its  alternation  of  sad  human  ineffectualness  with  vast  in- 
human cycles  of  activity  chilled  him,  and  he  forgot  his 
own  human  and  ineffectual  grieving. 
#        ^        #        « 

Stephen 'y  mother  and  his  brother  and  one  of  his 
cousins  waited  at  the  corner  of  quiet  Foster  Place  while 
he  and  his  father  went  up  the  steps  and  along  the 
colonnade  where  the  Highland  sentry  was  parading. 
When  they  had  passed  into  the  great  hall  and  stood  at 
the  counter  Stephen  drew  forth  his  orders  on  the  gov- 
ernor of  the  bank  of  Ireland  for  thirty  and  three 
pounds;  and  these  sums,  the  moneys  of  his  exhibition 
and  essay  prize,  were  paid  over  to  him  rapidly  by  the 
teller  in  notes  and  in  coin  respectively.  He  bestowed 
them  in  his  pockets  with  feigned  composure  and  suffered 
the  friendly  teller,  to  whom  his  father  chatted,  to  take 
his  hand  across  the  broad  counter  and  wish  him  a  bril- 
liant career  in  after  life.  He  was  impatient  of  their 
voices  and  could  not  keep  his  feet  at  rest.  But  the  teller 
still  deferred  the  serving  of  others  to  say  he  was  living 
in  changed  times  and  that  there  was  nothing  like  giving 

[108] 


a  boy  the  best  education  that  money  could  buy.  Mr 
Dedalus  lingered  in  the  hall  gazing  about  him  and  up  at 
the  roof  and  telling  Stephen,  who  urged  him  to  come 
out,  that  they  were  standing  in  the  house  of  commons 
of  the  old  Irish  parliament. 

—  God  help  us !  he  said  piously,  to  think  of  the  men 
of  those  times,  Stephen,  Hely  Hutchinson  and  Flood  and 
Henry  Grattan  and  Charles  Kendal  Bushe,  and  the 
noblemen  we  have  now,  leaders  of  the  Irish  people  at 
home  and  abroad.  Why,  by  God,  they  wouldn't  be  seen 
dead  in  a  ten  acre  field  with  them.  No,  Stephen,  old 
chap,  I'm  sorry  to  say  that  they  are  only  as  I  roved  out 
one  fine  May  morning  in  the  merry  month  of  sweet  July. 

A  keen  October  wind  was  blowing  round  the  bank. 
The  three  figures  standing  at  the  edge  of  the  muddy 
path  had  pinched  cheeks  and  watery  eyes.  Stephen 
looked  at  his  thinly  clad  mother  and  remembered  that 
a  few  days  before  he  had  seen  a  mantle  priced  at  twenty 
guineas  in  the  windows  of  Barnardo's. 

—  Well  that 's  done,  said  Mr  Dedalus. 

—  We  had  better  go  to  dinner,  said  Stephen.    Where  ? 

—  Dinner  ?  said  Mr  Dedalus.  Well,  I  suppose  we  had 
better,  what  ? 

—  Some  place  that's  not  too  dear,  said  Mrs  Dedalus. 

—  Underdone 's  ? 

—  Yes.     Some  quiet  place. 

—  Come  along,  said  Stephen  quickly.  It  doesn't 
matter  about  the  dearness. 

He  walked  on  before  them  with  short  nervous  steps, 
smiling.  They  tried  to  keep  up  with  him,  smiling  also 
at  his  eagerness. 

—  Take  it  easy  like  a  good  young  fellow,  said  his 
father.    We're  not  out  for  the  half  mile,  are  we? 

[109] 


For  a  swift  season  of  merrymaking  the  money  of  his 
prizes  ran  through  Stephen's  fingers.  Great  parcels  of 
groceries  and  delicacies  and  dried  fruits  arrived  from 
the  city.  Every  day  he  drew  up  a  bill  of  fare  for  the 
family  and  every  night  led  a  party  of  three  or  four  to 
the  theatre  to  see  Ingomar  or  The  Lady  of  Lyons,  In 
his  coat  pockets  he  carried  squares  of  Vienna  chocolate 
for  his  guests  while  his  trousers'  pockets  bulged  with 
masses  of  silver  and  copper  coins.  He  bought  presents 
for  everyone,  overhauled  his  room,  wrote  out  resolutions, 
marshalled  his  books  up  and  down  their  shelves,  pored 
upon  all  kinds  of  price  lists,  drew  up  a  form  of  common- 
wealth for  the  household  by  which  every  member  of  it 
held  some  office,  opened  a  loan  bank  for  his  family  and 
pressed  loans  on  willing  borrowers  so  that  he  might  have 
the  pleasure  of  making  out  receipts  and  reckoning  the 
interests  on  the  sums  lent.  When  he  could  do  no  more 
he  drove  up  and  down  the  city  in  trams.  Then  the 
season  of  pleasure  came  to  an  end.  The  pot  of  pink 
enamel  paint  gave  out  and  the  wainscot  of  his  bedroom 
remained  with  its  unfinished  and  ill  plastered  coat. 

His  household  returned  to  its  usual  way  of  life.  His 
mother  had  no  further  occasion  to  upbraid  him  for 
squandering  his  money.  He,  too,  returned  to  his  old  life 
at  school  and  all  his  novel  enterprises  fell  to  pieces. 
The  commonwealth  fell,  the  loan  bank  closed  its  coffers 
and  its  books  on  a  sensible  loss,  the  rules  of  life  which 
he  had  drawn  about  himself  fell  into  desuetude. 

How  foolish  his  aim  had  been !  He  had  tried  to  build 
a  breakwater  of  order  and  elegance  against  the  sordid 
tide  of  life  without  him  and  to  dam  up,  by  rules  of 
conduct  and  active  interests  and  new  filial  relations,  the 
powerful  recurrence  of  the  tide  within  him.    Useless. 

[110] 


*  Prom  without  as  from  within  the  water  had  flowed  over 
his  barriers :  their  tides  began  once  more  to  jostle  fiercely- 
above  the  crumbled  mole. 

He  saw  clearly,  too,  his  own  futile  isolation.  He  had 
not  gone  one  step  nearer  the  lives  he  had  sought  to 
approach  nor  bridged  the  restless  shame  and  rancour 
that  had  divided  him  from  mother  and  brother  and 
sister.  He  felt  that  he  was  hardly  of  the  one  blood  with 
them  but  stood  to  them  rather  in  the  mystical  kinship  of 
fosterage,  foster  child  and  foster  brother. 

He  turned  to  appease  the  fierce  longings  of  his  heart 
before  which  everything  else  was  idle  and  alien.  He 
cared  little  that  he  was  in  mortal  sin,  that  his  life  had 
grown  to  be  a  tissue  of  subterfuge  and  falsehood.  Be- 
side the  savage  desire  within  him  to  realise  the  enor- 
mities which  he  brooded  on  nothing  was  sacred.  He 
bore  cynicially  with  the  shameful  details  of  his  secret 
riots  in  which  he  exulted  to  defile  with  patience  what- 
ever image  had  attracted  his  eyes.  By  day  and  by  night 
he  moved  among  distorted  images  of  the  outer  world.  A 
figure  that  had  seemed  to  him  by  day  demure  and  inno- 
cent came  towards  him  by  night  through  the  winding 
darkness  of  sleep,  her  face  transfigured  by  a  lecherous 
cunning,  her  eyes  bright  with  brutish  joy.  Only  the 
morning  pained  him  with  its  dim  memory  of  dark  orgi- 
astic riot,  its  keen  and  humiliating  sense  of  transgression. 

He  returned  to  his  wanderings.  The  veiled  autumnal 
evenings  led  him  from  street  to  street  as  they  had  led 
him  years  before  along  the  quiet  avenues  of  Blackrock. 
But  no  vision  of  trim  front  gardens  or  of  kindly  lights 
in  the  windows  poured  a  tender  influence  upon  him  now. 
Only  at  times,  in  the  pauses  of  his  desire,  when  the  lux- 
ury that  was  wasting  him  gave  room  to  a  softer  languor, 

[111] 


the  image  of  Mercedes  traversed  the  background  of  his 
memory.  He  saw  again  the  small  white  house  and  the 
garden  of  rosebushes  on  the  road  that  led  to  the  moun- 
tains and  he  remembered  the  sadly  proud  gesture  of  re- 
fusal which  he  was  to  make  there,  standing  with  her  in 
the  moonlit  garden  after  years  of  estrangement  and  ad- 
venture. At  those  moments  the  soft  speeches  of  Claude 
Melnotte  rose  to  his  lips  and  eased  his  unrest.  A  tender 
premonition  touched  him  of  the  tryst  he  had  then  looked 
forward  to  and,  in  spite  of  the  horrible  reality  which  lay 
between  his  hope  of  then  and  now,  of  the  holy  encounter 
he  had  then  imagined  at  which  weakness  and  timidity 
and  inexperience  were  to  fall  from  him. 

Such  moments  passed  and  the  wasting  fires  of  lust 
sprang  up  again.  The  verses  passed  from  his  lips  and 
the  inarticulate  cries  and  the  unspoken  brutal  words 
rushed  forth  from  his  brain  to  force  a  passage.  His 
blood  was  in  revolt.  He  wandered  up  and  down  the 
dark  slimy  streets  peering  into  the  gloom  of  lanes  and 
doorways,  listening  eagerly  for  any  sound.  He  moaned 
to  himself  like  some  baffled  prowling  beast.  He  wanted 
to  sin  with  another  of  his  kind,  to  force  another  being  to 
sin  with  him  and  to  exult  with  her  in  sin.  He  felt  some 
dark  presence  moving  irresistibly  upon  him  from  the 
darkness,  a  presence  subtle  and  murmurous  as  a  flood 
filling  him  wholly  with  itself.  Its  murmur  besieged  his 
ears  like  the  murmur  of  some  multitude  in  sleep;  its 
subtle  streams  penetrated  his  being.  His  hands  clenched 
convulsively  and  his  teeth  set  together  as  he  suffered  the 
agony  of  its  penetration.  He  stretched  out  his  arms  in 
the  street  to  hold  fast  the  frail  swooning  form  that 
eluded  him  and  incited  him:  and  the  cry  that  he  had 
strangled  for  so  long  in  his  throat  issued  from  his  lips. 

[112] 


It  broke  from  him  like  a  wail  of  despair  from  a  hell  of 
sufferers  and  died  in  a  wail  of  furious  entreaty,  a  cry 
for  an  iniquitous  abandonment,  a  cry  which  was  but  the 
echo  of  an  obscene  scrawl  which  he  had  read  on  the  ooz- 
ing wall  of  a  urinal. 

He  had  wandered  into  a  maze  of  narrow  and  dirty 
streets.  From  the  foul  laneways  he  heard  bursts  of 
hoarse  riot  and  wrangling  and  the  drawling  of  drunken 
singers.  He  walked  onward,  undismayed,  wondering 
whether  he  had  strayed  into  the  quarter  of  the  Jews. 
Women  and  girls  dressed  in  long  vivid  gowns  traversed 
the  street  from  house  to  house.  They  were  leisurely  and 
perfumed.  A  trembling  seized  him  and  his  eyes  grew 
dim.  The  yellow  gasflames  arose  before  his  troubled 
vision  against  the  vapoury  sky,  burning  as  if  before  an 
altar.  Before  the  doors  and  in  the  lighted  halls  groups 
were  gathered  arrayed  as  for  some  rite.  He  was  in 
another  world:  he  had  awakened  from  a  slumber  of 
centuries. 

He  stood  still  in  the  middle  of  the  roadway,  his  heart 
clamouring  against  his  bosom  in  a  tumult.  A  young 
woman  dressed  in  a  long  pink  gown  laid  her  hand  on 
his  arm  to  detain  him  and  gazed  into  his  face.  She 
said  gaily: 

—  Good  night,  Willie  dear ! 

Her  room  was  warm  and  lightsome.  A  huge  doll  sat 
with  her  legs  apart  in  the  copious  easychair  beside  the 
bed.  He  tried  to  bid  his  tongue  speak  that  he  might 
seem  at  ease,  watching  her  as  she  undid  her  gown,  not- 
ing the  proud  conscious  movements  of  her  perfumed 
head. 

As  he  stood  silent  in  the  middle  of  the  room  she  came 
over  to  him  and  embraced  him  gaily  and  gravely.    Her 

[113] 


round  arms  held  him  firmly  to  her  and  he,  seeing  her 
face  lifted  to  him  in  serious  calm  and  feeling  the  warm 
calm  rise  and  fall  of  her  breast,  all  but  burst  into  hysteri- 
cal weeping.  Tears  of  joy  and  relief  shone  in  his  de- 
lighted eyes  and  his  lips  parted  though  they  would  not 
speak. 

She  passed  her  tinkling  hand  through  his  hair,  calling 
him  a  little  rascal. 

—  Give  me  a  kiss,  she  said. 

His  lips  would  not  bend  to  kiss  her.  He  wanted  to  be 
held  firmly  in  her  arms,  to  be  caressed  slowly,  slowly, 
slowly.  In  her  arms  he  felt  that  he  had  suddenly  become 
strong  and  fearless  and  sure  of  himself.  But  his  lips 
would  not  bend  to  kiss  her. 

With  a  sudden  movement  she  bowed  his  head  and 
joined  her  lips  to  his  and  he  read  the  meaning  of  her 
movements  in  her  frank  uplifted  eyes.  It  was  too  much 
for  him.  He  closed  his  eyes,  surrendering  himself  to 
her,  body  and  mind,  conscious  of  nothing  in  the  world 
but  the  dark  pressure  of  her  softly  parting  lips.  They 
pressed  upon  his  brain  as  upon  his  lips  as  though  they 
were  the  vehicle  of  a  vague  speech ;  and  between  them  he 
felt  an  unknown  and  timid  pressure,  darker  than  the 
swoon  of  sin,  softer  than  sound  or  odour. 


[114] 


CHAPTER  III 

The  swift  December  dusk  had  come  tumbling  clown- 
ishly  after  its  dull  day  and  as  he  stared  through  the 
dull  square  of  the  window  of  the  schoolroom  he  felt  his 
belly  crave  for  its  food.  He  hoped  there  would  be  stew 
for  dinner,  turnips  and  carrots  and  bruised  potatoes  and 
fat  mutton  pieces  to  be  ladled  out  in  thick  peppered 
flour-fattened  sauce.  Stuff  it  into  you,  his  belly  coun- 
selled him. 

It  would  be  a  gloomy  secret  night.  After  early  night- 
fall the  yellow  lamps  would  light  up,  here  and  there, 
the  squalid  quarter  of  the  brothels.  He  would  follow  a 
devious  course  up  and  down  the  streets,  circling  always 
nearer  and  nearer  in  a  tremor  of  fear  and  joy,  until  his 
feet  led  him  suddenly  round  a  dark  corner.  The  whores 
would  be  just  coming  out  of  their  houses  making  ready 
for  the  night,  yawning  lazily  after  their  sleep  and  settling 
the  hairpins  in  their  clusters  of  hair.  He  would  pass  by 
them  calmly  waiting  for  a  sudden  movement  of  his  own 
will  or  a  sudden  call  to  his  sin-loving  soul  from  their 
soft  perfumed  flesh.  Yet  as  he  prowled  in  quest  of  that 
call,  his  senses,  stultified  only  by  his  desire,  would  note 
keenly  all  that  wounded  or  shamed  them ;  his  eyes,  a  ring 
of  porter  froth  on  a  clothless  table  or  a  photograph  of  two 
soldiers  standing  to  attention  on  a  gaudy  playbill;  his 
ears,  the  drawling  jargon  of  greeting : 

[115] 


—  Hello,  Bertie,  any  good  in  your  mind  ? 

—  Is  that  you,  pigeon  ? 

—  Number  ten.     Fresh  Nelly  is  waiting  on  you. 

—  Good  night,  husband !  Coming  in  to  have  a  short 
time? 

The  equation  on  the  page  of  his  scribbler  began  to 
spread  out  a  widening  tail,  eyed  and  starred  like  a  pea- 
cock's; and,  when  the  eyes  and  stars  of  its  indices  had 
been  eliminated,  began  slowly  to  fold  itself  together 
again.  The  indices  appearing  and  disappearing  were 
eyes  opening  and  closing;  the  eyes  opening  and  closing 
were  stars  being  born  and  being  quenched.  The  vast 
cycle  of  starry  life  bore  his  weary  mind  outward  to  its 
verge  and  inward  to  its  centre,  a  distant  music  accom- 
panying him  outward  and  inward.  What  music?  The 
music  came  nearer  and  he  recalled  the  words,  the  words 
of  Shelley's  fragment  upon  the  moon  wandering  com- 
panionless,  pale  for  weariness.  The  stars  began  to  crum- 
ble and  a  cloud  of  fine  star-dust  fell  through  space. 

The  dull  light  fell  more  faintly  upon  the  page  whereon 
another  equation  began  to  unfold  itself  slowly  and  to 
spread  abroad  its  widening  tail.  It  was  his  own  soul 
going  forth  to  experience,  unfolding  itself  sin  by  sin, 
spreading  abroad  the  balefire  of  its  burning  stars  and 
folding  back  upon  itself,  fading  slowly,  quenching  its 
own  lights  and  fires.  They  were  quenched :  and  the  cold 
darkness  filled  chaos. 

A  cold  lucid  indifference  reigned  in  his  soul.  At  his 
first  violent  sin  he  had  felt  a  wave  of  vitality  pass  out 
of  him  and  had  feared  to  find  his  body  or  his  soul 
maimed  by  the  excess.  Instead  the  vital  wave  had  car- 
ried him  on  its  bosom  out  of  himself  and  back  again 
when  it  receded :  and  no  part  (jf  body  or  soul  had  been 

[116]      ■"     ' 


maimed,  but  a  dark  peace  had  been  established  between 
them.  The  chaos  in  which  his  ardour  extinguished  itself 
was  a  cold  indifferent  knowledge  of  himself.  He  had 
sinned  mortally  not  once  but  many  times  and  he  knew 
that,  while  he  stood  in  danger  of  eternal  damnation  for 
the  first  sin  alone,  by  every  succeeding  sin  he  multiplied 
his  guilt  and  his  punishment.  His  days  and  works  and 
thoughts  could  make  no  atonement  for  him,  the  foun- 
tains of  sanctifying  grace  having  ceased  to  refresh  his 
soul.  At  most,  by  an  alms  given  to  a  beggar  whose 
blessing  he  fled  from,  he  might  hope  wearily  to  win  for 
himself  some  measure  of  actual  grace.  Devotion  had 
gone  by  the  board.  What  did  it  avail  to  pray  when  he 
knew  that  his  soul  lusted  after  its  own  destruction?  A 
certain  pride,  a  certain  awe,  withheld  him  from  offering 
to  God  even  one  prayer  at  night  though  he  knew  it  was 
in  God's  power  to  take  away  his  life  while  he  slept  and 
hurl  his  soul  hellward  ere  he  could  beg  for  mercy.  His 
pride  in  his  own  sin,  his  loveless  awe  of  God,  told  him 
that  his  offence  was  too  grievous  to  be  atoned  for  in 
whole  or  in  part  by  a  false  homage  to  the  AUseeing  and 
Allknowing. 

—  Well  now,  Ennis,  I  declare  you  have  a  head  and  so 
has  my  stick!  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  you  are  not 
able  to  tell  me  what  a  surd  is  ? 

The  blundering  answer  stirred  the  embers  of  his  con- 
tempt of  his  fellows.  Towards  others  he  felt  neither 
shame  nor  fear.  On  Sunday  mornings  as  he  passed  the 
church  door  he  glanced  coldly  at  the  worshippers  who 
stood  bareheaded,  four  deep,  outside  the  church,  morally 
present  at  the  mass  which  they  could  neither  see  nor 
hear.  Their  dull  piety  and  the  sickly  smell  of  the  cheap 
hair  oil  with  which  they  had  anointed  their  heads  r^- 

[117] 


pelled  him  from  the  altar  they  prayed  at.  He  stooped 
to  the  evil  of  hypocrisy  with  others,  sceptical  of  their 
innocence  which  he  could  cajole  so  easily. 

On  the  wall  of  his  bedroom  hung  an  illuminated  scroll, 
the  certificate  of  his  prefecture  in  the  college  of  the 
sodality  of  the  Blessed  Virgin  Mary.  On  Saturday 
mornings  when  the  sodality  met  in  the  chapel  to  recite 
the  little  office  his  place  was  a  cushioned  kneeling-desk 
at  the  right  of  the  altar  from  which  he  led  his  wing  of 
boys  through  .the  responses.  The  falsehood  of  his  posi- 
tion did  not  pain  him.  If  at  moments  he  felt  an  impulse 
to  rise  from  his  post  of  honour  and,  confessing  before 
them  all  his  unworthiness,  to  leave  the  chapel,  a  glance 
at  their  faces  restrained  him.  The  imagery  of  the 
psalms  of  prophecy  soothed  his  barren  pride.  The 
glories  of  Mary  held  his  soul  captive:  spikenard  and 
myrrh  and  frankincense,  symbolising  her  royal  lineage, 
her  emblems,  the  late-flowering  plant  and  late-blossom- 
ing tree,  symbolising  the  agelong  gradual  growth  of  her 
cultus  among  men.  When  it  fell  to  him  to  read  the 
lesson  towards  the  close  of  the  office  he  read  it  in  a 
veiled  voice,  lulling  his  conscience  to  its  music. 

Quasi  cedrus  exaltata  sum  in  Libanon  et  quasi  cu- 
pressus  in  monte  Sion.  Quasi  palma  exaltata  sum  in 
Gades  et  quasi  plantatio  rosae  in  Jericho.  Quasi  uliva 
speciosa  in  campis  et  quasi  plantanus  exaltata  sum  juxta 
aquam  in  plateis.  Sicut  cinnamomum  et  halsamum 
aromatizans  odorem  dedi  et  quasi  m^rrha  electa  dedi 
suavitatem  odoris. 

His  sin,  which  had  covered  him  from  the  sight  of  God, 
had  led  him  nearer  to  the  refuge  of  sinners.    Her  eyeg 

[118] 


seemed  to  regard  him  with  mild  pity;  her  holiness,  a 
strange  light  glowing  faintly  upon  her  frail  flesh,  did 
not  humiliate  the  sinner  who  approached  her.  If  ever  he 
was  impelled  to  cast  sin  from  him  and  to  repent,  the 
impulse  that  moved  him  was  the  wish  to  be  her  knight. 
If  ever  his  soul,  re-entering  her  dwelling  shyly  after  the 
frenzy  of  his  body's  lust  had  spent  itself,  was  turned 
towards  her  whose  emblem  is  the  morning  star,  **  bright 
and  musical,  telling  of  heaven  and  infusing  peace,''  it 
was  when  her  names  were  murmured  softly  by  lips 
whereon  there  still  lingered  foul  and  shameful  words, 
the  savour  itself  of  a  lewd  kiss. 

That  was  strange.  He  tried  to  think  how  it  could  be 
but  the  dusk,  deepening  in  the  schoolroom,  covered  over 
his  thoughts.  The  bell  rang.  The  master  marked  the 
sums  and  cuts  to  be  done  for  the  next  lesson  and  went 
out.    Heron,  beside  Stephen,  began  to  hum  tunelessly. 

My  excellent  friend  Bombados. 

Ennis,  who  had  gone  to  the  yard,  came  back,  saying : 

—  The  boy  from  the  house  is  coming  up  for  the  rector. 
A  tall  boy  behind  Stephen  rubbed  his  hands  and  said : 

—  That's  game  ball.  We  can  scut  the  whole  hour. 
He  won't  be  in  till  after  half  two.  Then  you  can  ask 
him  questions  on  the  catechism,  Dedalus. 

Stephen,  leaning  back  and  drawing  idly  on  his 
scribbler,  listened  to  the  talk  about  him  which  Heron 
checked  from  time  to  time  by  saying : 

—  Shut  up,  will  you.    Don't  make  such  a  bally  racket ! 
It  was  strange  too  that  he  found  an  arid  pleasure  in 

following  up  to  the  end  the  rigid  lines  of  the  doctrines 
of  the  church  and  penetrating  into  obscure  silences  only 

[119] 


to  hear  and  feel  the  more  deeply  his  own  condemnation. 
The  sentence  of  Saint  James  which  says  that  he  who 
offends  against  one  commandment  becomes  guilty  of  all 
had  seemed  to  him  first  a  swollen  phrase  until  he  had 
begun  to  grope  in  the  darkness  of  his  own  state.  From 
the  evil  seed  of  lust  all  other  deadly  sins  had  sprung 
forth :  pride  in  himself  and  contempt  of  others,  covetous- 
ness  in  using  money  for  the  purchase  of  unlawful 
pleasures,  envy  of  those  whose  vices  he  could  not  reach 
to  and  calumnious  murmuring  against  the  pious,  glut- 
tonous enjoyment  of  food,  the  dull  glowering  anger  amid 
which  he  brooded  upon  his  longing,  the  swamp  of  spir- 
itual and  bodily  sloth  in  which  his  whole  being  had  sunk. 
As  he  sat  in  his  bench  gazing  calmly  at  the  rector's 
shrewd  harsh  face  his  mind  wound  itself  in  and  out  of 
the  curious  questions  proposed  to  it.  If  a  man  had 
stolen  a  pound  in  his  youth  and  had  used  that  pound  to 
amass  a  huge  fortune  how  much  was  he  obliged  to  give 
back,  the  pound  he  had  stolen  only  or  the  pound  together 
with  the  compound  interest  accruing  upon  it  or  all  his 
huge  fortune?  If  a  layman  in  giving  baptism  pour  the 
water  before  saying  the  words  is  the  child  baptised? 
Is  baptism  with  a  mineral  water  valid  ?  How  comes  it 
that  while  the  first  beatitude  promises  the  kingdom  of 
heaven  to  the  poor  of  heart,  the  second  beatitude  prom- 
ises also  to  the  meek  that  they  shall  possess  the  land? 
Why  was  the  sacrament  of  the  eucharist  instituted  under 
the  two  species  of  bread  and  wine  if  Jesus  Christ  be 
present  body  and  blood,  soul  and  divinity,  in  the  bread 
alone  and  in  the  wine  alone?  Does  a  tiny  particle  of 
the  consecrated  bread  contain  all  the  body  and  blood 
of  Jesus  Christ  or  a  part  only  of  the  body  and  blood? 
If  the  wine  change  into  vinegar  and  the  host  crumble 

[120] 


into  corruption  after  they  have  been  consecrated,  is  Jesus 
Christ  still  present  under  their  species  as  God  and  as 
man? 

—  Here  he  is !     Here  he  is ! 

A  boy  from  his  post  at  the  window  had .  seen  the 
rector  come  from  the  house.  All  the  catechisms  were 
opened  and  all  heads  bent  upon  them  silently.  The 
rector  entered  and  took  his  seat  on  the  dais.  A  gentle 
kick  from  the  tall  boy  in  the  bench  behind  urged 
Stephen  to  ask  a  difficult  question. 

The  rector  did  not  ask  for  a  catechism  to  hear  the 
lesson  from.  He  clasped  his  hands  on  the  desks  and 
said: 

—  The  retreat  will  begin  on  Wednesday  afternoon  in 
honour  of  Saint  Francis  Xavier  whose  feast  day  is 
Saturday.  The  retreat  will  go  on  from  Wednesday  to 
Friday.  On  Friday  confession  will  be  heard  all  the 
afternoon  after  beads.  If  any  boys  have  special  con- 
fessors perhaps  it  will  be  better  for  them  not  to  change. 
Mass  will  be  on  Saturday  morning  at  nine  o'clock  and 
general  communion  for  the  whole  college.  Saturday  will 
be  a  free  day.  But  Saturday  and  Sunday  being  free 
days  some  boys  might  be  inclined  to  think  that  Monday 
is  a  free  day  also.  Beware  of  making  that  mistake.  I 
think  you,  Lawless,  are  likely  to  make  that  mistake. 

—  I,  sir?    Why,  sir? 

A  little  wave  of  quiet  mirth  broke  forth  over  the  class 
of  boys  from  the  rector's  grim  smile.  Stephen's  heart 
began  slowly  to  fold  and  fade  with  fear  like  a  withering 
flower. 

The  rector  went  on  gravely : 

—  You  are  all  familiar  with  the  story  of  the  life  of 
Saint  Francis  Xavier,  I  suppose,  the  patron  of  your 

[121] 


college.  He  came  of  an  old  and  illustrious  Spanish 
family  and  you  remember  that  he  was  one  of  the  first 
followers  of  Saint  Ignatius.  They  met  in  Paris  where 
Francis  Xavier  was  professor  of  philosophy  at  the 
university.  This  young  and  brilliant  nobleman  and  man 
of  letters  entered  heart  and  soul  into  the  ideas  of  our 
glorious  founder,  and  you  know  that  he,  at  his  own 
desire,  was  sent  by  Saint  Ignatius  to  preach  to  the 
Indians.  He  is  called,  as  you  know,  the  apostle  of  the 
Indies.  He  went  from  country  to  country  in  the  east, 
from  Africa  to  India,  from  India  to  Japan,  baptising  the 
people.  He  is  said  to  have  baptised  as  many  as  ten 
thousand  idolators  in  one  month.  It  is  said  that  his 
right  arm  had  grown  powerless  from  having  been  raised 
so  often  over  the  heads  of  those  whom  he  baptised.  He 
wished  then  to  go  to  China  to  win  still  more  souls  for 
God  but  he  died  of  fever  on  the  island  of  Sancian.  A 
great  Saint,  Saint  Francis  Xavier!  A  great  soldier  of 
God! 

The  rector  paused  and  then,  shaking  his  clasped  hands 
before  him,  went  on: 

—  He  had  the  faith  in  him  that  moves  mountains. 
Ten  thousand  souls  won  for  God  in  a  single  month! 
That  is  a  true  conqueror,  true  to  the  motto  of  our  order : 
ad  majorem  Dei  gloriami  A  saint  who  has  great  power 
in  heaven,  remember:  power  to  intercede  for  us  in  our 
grief,  power  to  obtain  whatever  we  pray  for  if  it  be 
for  the  good  of  our  souls,  power  above  all  to  obtain  for 
us  the  grace  to  repent  if  we  be  in  sin.  A  great  saint, 
Saint  Francis  Xavier !    A  great  fisher  of  souls ! 

He  ceased  to  shake  his  clasped  hands  and,  resting 
them  against  his  forehead,  looked  right  and  left  of  them 
keenly  at  his  listeners  out  of  his  dark  stem  eyes. 

[122] 


In  the  silence  their  dark  fire  kindled  the  dusk  into  a 

tawny  glow.     Stephen's  heart  had  withered  up  like  a 

flower  of  the  desert  that  feels  the  simoom  coming  from 

afar. 

#        #        #        # 

—  Rememier  only  thy  last  things  and  thou  shalt  not 
sin  for  ever  —  words  taken,  my  dear  little  brothers  in 
Christ,  from  the  book  of  Ecclesiastes,  seventh  chapter, 
fortieth  verse.  In  the  name  of  the  Father  and  of  the 
Son  and  of  the  Holy  Ghost.    Amen. 

Stephen  sat  in  the  front  bench  of  the  chapel.  Father 
Arnall  sat  at  a  table  to  the  left  of  the  altar.  He  wore 
about  his  shoulders  a  heavy  cloak;  his  pale  face  was 
drawn  and  his  voice  broken  with  rheum.  The  figure  of 
his  old  master,  so  strangely  rearisen,  brought  back  to 
Stephen's  mind  his  life  at  Clongowes:  the  wide  play- 
grounds, swarming  with  boys,  the  square  ditch,  the  little 
cemetery  off  the  main  avenue  of  limes  where  he  had 
dreamed  of  being  buried,  the  firelight  on  the  wall  of  the 
infirmary  where  he  lay  sick,  the  sorrowful  face  of 
Brother  Michael.  His  soul,  as  these  memories  came  back 
to  him,  became  again  a  child's  soul. 

—  We  are  assembled  here  today,  my  dear  little 
brothers  in  Christ,  for  one  brief  moment  far  away  from 
the  busy  bustle  of  the  outer  world  to  celebrate  and  to 
honour  one  of  the  greatest  of  saints,  the  apostle  of  the 
Indies,  the.  patron  saint  also  of  your  college.  Saint 
Francis  Xavier.  Year  after  year  for  much  longer  than 
any  of  you,  my  dear  little  boys,  can  remember  or  than  I 
can  remember  the  boys  of  this  college  have  met  in  this 
very  chapel  to  make  their  annual  retreat  before  the  feast 
day  of  their  patron  saint.  Time  has  gone  on  and  brought 
with  it  its  changes.    Even  in  the  last  few  years  what 

[123J 


changes  can  most  of  you  not  remember?  Many  of  the 
boys  who  sat  in  those  front  benches  a  few  years  ago  are 
perhaps  now  in  distant  lands,  in  the  burning  tropics  or 
immersed  in  professional  duties  or  in  seminaries  or 
voyaging  over  the  vast  expanse  of  the  deep  or,  it  may 
be,  already  called  by  the  great  God  to  another  life  and 
to  the  rendering  up  of  their  stewardship.  And  still  as 
the  years  roll  by,  bringing  with  them  changes  for  good 
and  bad,  the  memory  of  the  great  saint  is  honoured  by 
the  boys  of  his  college  who  make  every  year  their 
annual  retreat  on  the  days  preceding  the  feast  day  set 
apart  by  our  Holy  Mother  the  Church  to  transmit  to  all 
the  ages  the  name  and  fame  of  one  of  the  greatest  sons 
of  catholic  Spain. 

—  Now  what  is  the  meaning  of  this  word  retreat  and 
why  is  it  allowed  on  all  hands  to  be  a  most  salutory  prac- 
tice for  all  who  desire  to  lead  before  God  and  in  the  eyes 
of  men  a  truly  Christian  life  ?  A  retreat,  my  dear  boys, 
signifies  a  withdrawal  for  a  while  from  the  cares  of  our 
life,  the  cares  of  this  workaday  world,  in  order  to  ex- 
amine the  state  of  our  conscience,  to  reflect  on  the  mys- 
teries of  holy  religion  and  to  understand  better  why  we 
are  here  in  this  world.  During  these  few  days  I  intend 
to  put  before  you  some  thoughts  concerning  the  four 
last  things.  They  are,  as  you  know  from  your  catechism, 
death,  judgment,  hell  and  heaven.  We  shall  try  to  un- 
derstand them  fully  during  these  few  days  so  that  we 
may  derive  from  the  understanding  of  them  a  lasting 
benefit  to  our  souls.  And  remember,  my  dear  boys,  that 
we  have  been  sent  into  this  world  for  one  thing  and 
for  one  thing  alone:  to  do  God's  holy  will  and  to  save 
our  immortal  souls.  All  else  is  worthless.  One  thing 
alone  is  needful,  the  salvation  of  one 's  soul.    What  doth 

[124] 


it  profit  a  man  to  gain  the  whole  world  if  he  suffer  the 
loss  of  his  immortal  soul  ?  Ah,  my  dear  boys,  believe  me 
there  is  nothing  in  this  wretched  world  that  can  make  up 
for  such  a  loss. 

— '  I  will  ask  you  therefore,  my  dear  boys,  to  put  away 
from  your  minds  during  these  few  days  all  worldly 
thoughts,  whether  of  study  or  pleasure  or  ambition, 
and  to  give  all  your  attention  to  the  state  of  your  souls. 
I  need  hardly  remind  you  that  during  the  days  of  the 
retreat  all  boys  are  expected  to  preserve  a  quiet  and 
pious  demeanour  and  to  shun  all  loud  unseemly 
pleasure.  The  elder  boys,  of  course,  will  see  that  this 
custom  is  not  infringed  and  I  look  especially  to  the 
prefects  and  officers  of  the  sodality  of  Our  Blessed  Lady 
and  of  the  sodality  of  the  Holy  Angels  to  set  a  good 
example  to  their  fellow-students. 

—  Let  us  try,  therefore,  to  make  this  retreat  in  honour 
of  St.  Francis  with  our  whole  heart  and  our  whole  mind. 
God's  blessing  will  then  be  upon  all  your  year's  studies. 
But,  above  and  beyond  all,  let  this  retreat  be  one  to 
which  you  can  look  back  in  after  years  when,  may  be, 
you  are  far  from  this  college  and  among  very  different 
surroundings,  to  which  you  can  look  back  with  joy  and 
thankfulness  and  give  thanks  to  God  for  having  granted 
you  this  occasion  of  laying  the  first  foundation  of  a 
pious  honourable  zealous  Christian  life.  And  if,  as  may 
so  happen,  there  be  at  this  moment  in  these  benches  any 
poor  soul  who  has  had  the  unutterable  misfortune  to 
lose  God's  holy  grace  and  to  fall  into  grievous  sin,  I 
fervently  trust  and  pray  that  this  retreat  may  be  the 
turning-point  in  the  life  of  that  soul.  I  pray  to  God 
through  the  merits  of  His  zealous  servant  Francis  Xavier 
that  such  a  soul  may  be  led  to  sincere  repentance  and 

[125] 


that  the  holy  communion  on  St.  Francis'  day  of  this 
year  may  be  a  lasting  covenant  between  God  and  that 
soul.  For  just  and  unjust,  for  saint  and  sinner  alike, 
may  this  retreat  be  a  memorable  one. 

—  Help  me,  my  dear  little  brothers  in  Christ.  Help 
me  by  your  pious  attention,  by  your  own  devotion,  by 
your  outward  demeanour.  Banish  from  your  minds  all 
worldly  thoughts,  and  think  only  of  the  last  things, 
death,  judgment,  hell  and  heaven.  He  who  remembers 
these  things,  says  Ecclesiastes,  shall  not  sin  for  ever. 
He  who  remembers  the  last  things  will  act  and  think 
with  them  always  before  his  eyes.  He  will  live  a  good 
life  and  die  a  good  death,  believing  and  knowing  that, 
if  he  has  sacrificed  much  in  this  earthly  life,  it  will  be 
given  to  him  a  hundredfold  and  a  thousandfold  more 
in  the  life  to  come,  in  the  kingdom  without  end  —  a  bless- 
ing, my  dear  boys,  which  I  wish  you  from  my  heart, 
one  and  all,  in  the  name  of  the  Father  and  of  the  Son 
and  of  the  Holy  Ghost.    Amen ! 

As  he  walked  home  with  silent  companions  a  thick  fog 
seemed  to  compass  his  mind.  He  waited  in  stupor  of 
mind  till  it  should  lift  and  reveal  what  it  had  hidden. 
He  ate  his  dinner  with  surly  appetite  and  when  the  meal 
was  over  and  the  grease-strewn  plates  lay  abandoned  on 
the  table,  he  rose  and  went  to  the  window,  clearing  the 
thick  scum  from  his  mouth  with  his  tongue  and  licking 
it  from  his  lips.  So  he  had  sunk  to  the  state  of  a  beast 
that  licks  his  chaps  after  meat.  This  was  the  end;  and 
a  faint  glimmer  of  fear  began  to  pierce  the  fog  of  his 
mind.  He  pressed  his  face  against  the  pane  of  the  win^ 
dow  and  gazed  out  into  the  darkening  street.  Forms 
passed  this  way  and  that  through  the  dull  light.  And 
that  was  life.     The  letters  of  the  name  of  Dublin  lay 

[126] 


heavily  upon  his  mind,  pushing  one  another  surily  hither 
and  thither  with  slow  boorish  insistence.  His  soul  was 
fattening  and  congealing  into  a  gross  grease,  plunging 
ever  deeper  in  its  dull  fear  into  a  sombre  threatening 
dusk,  while  the  body  that  was  his  stood,  listless  and  dis- 
honoured, gazing  out  of  darkened  eyes,  helpless,  per- 
turbed and  human  for  a  bovine  god  to  stare  upon. 

The  next  day  brought  death  and  judgment,  stirring 
♦his  soul  slowly  from  its  listless  despair.  The  faint  glim- 
mer of  fear  became  a  terror  of  spirit  as  the  hoarse  voice 
of  the  preacher  blew  death  into  his  soul.  He  suffered 
its  agony.  He  felt  the  death-chill  touch  the  extremities 
and  creep  onward  towards  the  heart,  the  film  of  death 
veiling  the  eyes,  the  bright  centres  of  the  brain  extin- 
guished one  by  one  like  lamps,  the  last  sweat  oozing  upon 
the  skin,  the  powerlessness  of  the  dying  limbs,  the  speech 
thickening  and  wandering  and  failing,  the  heart  throb- 
bing faintly  and  more  faintly,  all  but  vanquished,  the 
breath,  the  poor  breath,  the  poor  helpless  human  spirit, 
sobbing  and  sighing,  gurgling  and  rattling  in  the  throat. 
No  help!  No  help!  He  —  he  himself  —  his  body  to 
which  he  had  yielded  was  dying.  Into  the  grave  with  it. 
Nail  it  down  into  a  wooden  box,  the  corpse.  Carry  it 
out  of  the  house  on  the  shoulders  of  hirelings.  Thrust 
it  out  of  men's  sight  into  a  long  hole  in  the  ground,  into 
the  grave,  to  rot,  to  feed  the  mass  of  its  creeping  worms 
and  to  be  devoured  by  scuttling  plump-bellied  rats. 

And  while  the  friends  were  still  standing  in  tears  by 
the  bedside  the  soul  of  the  sinner  was  judged.  At  the 
last  moment  of  conciousness  the  whole  earthly  life  passed 
before  the  vision  of  the  soul  and,  ere  it  had  time  to 
reflect,  the  body  had  died  and  the  soul  stood  terrified 
before  the  judgment  seat.  God,  who  had  long  been 
.         [127] 


merciful,  would  then  be  just.  He  had  long  been  patient, 
pleading  with  the  sinful  soul,  giving  it  time  to  repent, 
sparing  it  yet  awhile.  But  that  time  had  gone.  Time 
was  to  sin  and  to  enjoy,  time  was  to  scoff  at  God  and 
at  the  warnings  of  His  holy  church,  time  was  to  defy 
His  majesty,  to  disobey  His  commands,  to  hoodwink 
one's  fellow  men,  to  commit  sin  after  sin  and  to  hide 
one's  corruption  from  the  sight  of  men.  But  that  time 
was  over.  Now  it  was  God's  turn:  and  He  was  not  to 
be  hoodwinked  or  deceived.  Every  sin  would  then  come 
forth  from  its  lurking-place,  the  most  rebellious  against 
the  divine  will  and  the  most  degrading  to  our  poor 
corrupt  nature,  the  tiniest  imperfection  and  the  most 
heinous  atrocity.  "What  did  it  avail  then  to  have  been 
a  great  emperor,  a  great  general,  a  marvellous  inventor, 
the  most  learned  of  the  learned  ?  All  were  as  one  before 
the  judgment  seat  of  God.  He  would  reward  the  good 
and  punish  the  wicked.  One  single  instant  was  enough 
for  the  trial  of  a  man's  soul.  One  single  instant  after 
the  body's  death,  the  soul  had  been  weighed  in  the  bal- 
ance. The  particular  judgment  was  over  and  the  soul 
had  passed  to  the  abode  of  bliss  or  to  the  prison  of  pur- 
gatory or  had  been  hurled  howling  into  hell. 

Nor  was  that  all.  God's  justice  had  still  to  be  vin- 
dicated before  men:  after  the  particular  there  still  re- 
mained the  general  judgment.  The  last  day  had  come. 
The  doomsday  was  at  hand.  The  stars  of  heaven  were 
falling  upon  the  earth  like  the  figs  cast  by  the  figtree 
which  the  wind  has  shaken.  The  sun,  the  great 
luminary  of  the  universe,  had  become  as  sackcloth  of 
hair.  The  moon  was  blood  red.  The  firmament  was  as 
a  scroll  rolled  away.  The  archangel  Michael,  the  prince 
of  the  heavenly  host,  appeared  glorious  and  terrible 

[128] 


against  the  sky.  With  one  foot  on  the  sea  and  one  foot 
on  the  land  he  blew  from  the  archangelical  trumpet  the 
brazen  death  of  time.  The  three  blasts  of  the  angel  filled 
all  the  universe.  Time  is,  time  was,  but  time  shall  be  no 
more.  At  the  last  blast  the  souls  of  universal  humanity 
throng  towards  the  valley  of  Jehosaphat,  rich  and  poor, 
gentle  and  simple,  wise  and  foolish,  good  and  wicked. 
The  soul  of  every  human  being  that  has  ever  existed,  the 
souls  of  all  those  who  shall  yet  be  bom,  all  the  sons  and 
daughters  of  Adam,  all  are  assembled  on  that  supreme 
day.  And  lo,  the  supreme  judge  is  coming !  No  longer 
the  lowly  Lamb  of  God,  no  longer  the  meek  Jesus  of 
Nazareth,  no  longer  the  Man  of  Sorrows,  no  longer  the 
Good  Shepherd,  He  is  seen  now  coming  upon  the  clouds, 
in  great  power  and  majesty,  attended  by  nine  choirs  of 
angels,  angels  and  archangels,  principalities,  powers  and 
virtues,  thrones  and  dominations,  cherubim  and  sera- 
phim, God  Omnipotent,  God  everlasting.  He  speaks: 
and  His  voice  is  heard  even  at  the  farthest  limits  of 
space,  even  in  the  bottomless  abyss.  Supreme  Judge, 
from  His  sentence  there  will  be  and  can  be  no  appeal. 
He  calls  the  just  to  His  side,  bidding  them  enter  into 
the  Kingdom,  the  eternity  of  bliss,  prepared  for  them. 
The  unjust  He  casts  from  Him,  crying  in  His  offended 
majesty :  Depart  from  me,  ye  cursed,  into  everlasting  fire 
which  was  prepared  for  the  devil  and  his  angels,  0, 
what  agony  then  for  the  miserable  sinners!  Friend  is 
torn  apart  from  friend,  children  are  torn  from  their  par- 
ents, husbands  from  their  wives.  The  poor  sinner  holds 
out  his  arms  to  those  who  were  dear  to  him  in  this  earthly 
world,  to  those  whose  simple  piety  perhaps  he  made  a 
mock  of,  to  those  who  counselled  him  and  tried  to  lead 
him  on  the  right  path,  to  a  kind  brother,  to  a  loving 

[129] 


sister,  to  the  mother  and  father  who  loved  him  so  dearly. 
But  it  is  too  late :  the  just  turn  away  from  the  wretched 
damned  souls  which  now  appear  before  the  eyes  of  all 
in  their  hideous  and  evil  character.  0  you  hypocrites, 
0  you  whited  sepulchres,  0  you  who  present  a  smooth 
smiling  face  to  the  world  while  your  soul  within  is  a  foul 
swamp  of  sin,  how  will  it  fare  with  you  in  that  terrible 
day? 

And  this  day  will  come,  shall  come,  must  come;  the 
day  of  death  and  the  day  of  judgment.  It  is  appointed 
unto  man  to  die,  and  after  death  the  judgment.  Death 
is  certain.  The  time  and  manner  are  uncertain,  whether 
from  long  disease  or  from  some  unexpected  accident ;  the 
Son  of  God  Cometh  at  an  hour  when  you  little  expect 
Him.  Be  therefore  ready  every  moment,  seeing  that 
you  may  die  at  any  moment.  Death  is  the  end  of  us  all. 
Death  and  judgment,  brought  into  the  world  by  the  sin 
of  our  first  parents,  are  the  dark  portals  that  close  our 
earthly  existence,  the  portals  that  open  into  the  unknown 
and  the  unseen,  portals  through  which  every  soul  must 
pass,  alone,  unaided  save  by  its  good  works,  without 
friend  or  brother  or  parent  or  master  to  help  it,  alone 
and  trembling.  Let  that  thought  be  ever  before  our 
minds  and  then  we  cannot  sin.  Death,  a  cause  of  terror 
to  the  sinner,  is  a  blessed  moment  for  him  who  has 
walked  in  the  right  path,  fulfilling  the  duties  of  his 
station  in  life,  attending  to  his  morning  and  evening 
prayers,  approaching  the  holy  sacrament  frequently  and 
performing  good  and  merciful  works.  For  the  pious 
and  believing  catholic,  for  the  just  man,  death  is  no  cause 
of  terror.  Was  it  not  Addison,  the  great  English  writer, 
who,  when  on  his  deathbed,  sent  for  the  wicked  young 
earl  of  Warwick  to  let  him  see  how  a  christian  can  meet 

[130] 


his  end.     He  it  is  and  he  alone,  the  pious  and  believing 
christian,  who  can  say  in  his  heart : 

0  grave,  where  is  thy  victory? 
O  death,  where  is  thy  sting  f 

Every  word  of  it  was  for  him.  Against  his  sin,  foul 
and  secret,  the  whole  wrath  of  God  was  aimed.  The 
preacher's  knife  had  probed  deeply  into  his  disclosed 
conscience  and  he  felt  now  that  his  soul  was  festering 
in  sin.  Yes,  the  preacher  was  right.  God's  turn  had 
come.  Like  a  beast  in  its  lair  his  soul  had  lain  down 
in  its  own  filth  but  the  blasts  of  the  angel's  trumpet 
had  driven  him  forth  from  the  darkness  of  sin  into  the 
light.  The  words  of  doom  cried  by  the  angel  shattered 
in  an  instant  his  presumptuous  peace.  The  wind  of 
the  last  day  blew  through  his  mind ;  his  sins,  the  jewel- 
eyed  harlots  of  his  imagination,  fled  before  the  hurri- 
cane, squeaking  like  mice  in  their  terror  and  huddled 
under  a  mane  of  hair. 

As  he  crossed  the  square,  walking  homeward,  the  light 
laughter  of  a  girl  reached  his  burning  ear.  The  frail, 
gay  sound  smote  his  heart  more  strongly  than  a  trumpet- 
blast,  and,  not  daring  to  lift  his  eyes,  he  turned  aside 
and  gazed,  as  he  walked,  into  the  shadow  of  the  tangled 
shrubs.  Shame  rose  from  his  smitten  heart  and  flooded 
his  whole  being.  The  image  of  Emma  appeared  before 
him  and  under  her  eyes  the  flood  of  shame  rushed  forth 
anew  from  his  heart.  If  she  knew  to  what  his  mind 
had  subjected  her  or  how  his  brute-like  lust  had  torn 
and  trampled  upon  her  innocence!  Was  that  boyish 
love?  Was  that  chivalry?  Was  that  poetry?  The 
sordid  details  of  his  orgies  stank  under  his  very  nostrils. 

[131] 


The  sootcoated  packet  of  pictures  which  he  had  hidden 
in  the  flue  of  the  fireplace  and  in  the  presence  of  whose 
shameless  or  bashful  wantonness  he  lay  for  hours  sin- 
ning in  thought  and  deed;  his  monstrous  dreams,  peo- 
pled by  apelike  creatures  and  by  harlots  with  gleaming 
jewel  eyes;  the  foul  long  letters  he  had  written  in  the 
joy  of  guilty  confession  and  carried  secretly  for  days 
and  days  only  to  throw  them  under  cover  of  night  among 
the  grass  in  the  comer  of  a  field  or  beneath  some  hinge- 
less  door  or  in  some  niche  in  the  hedges  where  a  girl 
might  come  upon  them  as  she  walked  by  and  read  them 
secretly.  Mad!  Mad!  Was  it  possible  he  had  done 
these  things?  A  cold  sweat  broke  out  upon  his  forehead 
as  the  foul  memories  condensed  within  his  brain. 

When  the  agony  of  shame  had  passed  from  him  he 
tried  to  raise  his  soul  from  its  abject  powerlessness. 
God  and  the  Blessed  Virgin  were  too  far  from  him :  God 
was  too  great  and  stern  and  the  Blessed  Virgin  too  pure 
and  holy.  But  he  imagined  that  he  stood  near  Emma 
in  a  wide  land  and,  humbly  and  in  tears,  bent  and  kissed 
the  elbow  of  her  sleeve. 

In  the  wide  land  under  a  tender  lucid  evening  sky,  a 
cloud  drifting  westward  amid  a  pale  green  sea  of  heaven, 
they  stood  together,  children  that  had  erred.  Their 
error  had  offended  deeply  God's  majesty  though  it  was 
the  error  of  two  children;  but  it  had  not  offended  her 
whose  beauty  '^  is  not  like  earthly  beauty,  dangerous  to 
look  upon,  but  like  the  morning  star  which  is  its  emblem, 
bright  and  musical."  The  eyes  were  not  offended  which 
she  turned  upon  him  nor  reproachful.  She  placed  their 
hands  together,  hand  in  hand,  and  said,  speaking  to  their 
hearts. 

—  Take  hands,  Stephen  and  Emma.  It  is  a  beautiful 
[132] 


evening  now  in  heaven.  You  have  erred  but  you  are 
always  my  children.  It  is  one  heart  that  loves  another 
heart.  Take  hands  together,  my  dear  children,  and  you 
will  be  happy  together  and  your  hearts  will  love  each 
other. 

The  chapel  was  flooded  by  the  dull  scarlet  light  that 
filtered  through  the  lowered  blinds;  and  through  the 
fissure  between  the  last  blind  and  the  sash  a  shaft  of 
wan  light  entered  like  a  spear  and  touched  the  embossed 
brasses  of  the  candlesticks  upon  the  altar  that  gleamed 
like  the  battle-worn  mail  armour  of  angels. 

Eain  was  falling  on  the  chapel,  on  the  garden,  on  the 
college.  It  would  rain  for  ever,  noiselessly.  The  water 
would  rise  inch  by  inch,  covering  the  grass  and  shrubs, 
covering  the  trees  and  houses,  covering  the  monuments 
and  the  mountain  tops.  All  life  would  be  choked  off, 
noiselessly:  birds,  men,  elephants,  pigs,  children:  noise- 
lessly floating  corpses  amid  the  litter  of  the  wreckage  of 
the  world.  Forty  days  and  forty  nights  the  rain  would 
fall  till  the  waters  covered  the  face  of  the  earth. 

It  might  be.    Why  not? 

—  Hell  has  enlarged  its  soul  and  opened  its  mouth 
without  any  limits — ^^  words  taken,  my  dear  little  broth- 
ers in  Christ  Jesus,  from  the  book  of  Isaias,  fifth  chap- 
ter, fourteenth  verse.  In  the  name  of  the  Father  and  of 
the  Son  and  of  the  Holy  Ghost.     Amen. 

The  preacher  took  a  chainless  watch  from  a  pocket 
within  his  soutane  and,  having  considered  its  dial  for 
a  moment  in  silence,  placed  it  silently  before  him  on  the 
table. 

He  began  to  speak  in  a  quiet  tone. 

—  Adam  and  Eve,  my  dear  boys,  were,  as  you  know, 
our  first  parents,  and  you  will  remember  that  they  were 

[133], 


created  by  God  in  order  that  the  seats  in  heaven  left 
vacant  by  the  fall  of  Lucifer  and  his  rebellious  angels 
might  be  filled  again.  Lucifer,  we  are  told,  was  a  son 
of  the  morning,  a  radiant  and  mighty  angel ;  yet  he  fell : 
he  fell  and  there  fell  with  him  a  third  part  of  the  host 
of  heaven:  he  fell  and  was  hurled  with  his  rebellious 
angels  into  hell.  What  his  sin  was  we  cannot  say. 
Theologians  consider  that  it  was  the  sin  of  pride,  the 
sinful  thought  conceived  in  an  instant:  non  serviam:  I 
will  not  serve.  That  instant  was  his  ruin.  He  offended 
the  majesty  of  God  by  the  sinful  thought  of  one  instant 
and  God  cast  him  out  of  heaven  into  hell  for  ever. 

—  Adam  and  Eve  were  then  created  by  God  and  placed 
in  Eden,  in  the  plain  of  Damascus,  that  lovely  garden 
resplendent  with  sunlight  and  colour,  teeming  with 
luxuriant  vegetation.  The  fruitful  earth  gave  them  her 
bounty:  beasts  and  birds  were  their  willing  servants: 
they  knew  not  the  ills  our  flesh  is  heir  to,  disease  and 
poverty  and  death:  all  that  a  great  and  generous  God 
could  do  for  them  was  done.  But  there  was  one  con- 
dition imposed  on  them  by  God :  obedience  to  His  word. 
They  were  not  to  eat  of  the  fruit  of  the  forbidden 
tree. 

—  Alas,  my  dear  little  boys,  they  too  fell.  The  devil, 
once  a  shining  angel,  a  son  of  the  morning,  now  a  foul 
fiend  came  in  the  shape  of  a  serpent,  the  subtlest  of  all 
the  beasts  of  the  field.  He  envied  them.  He,  the  fallen 
great  one,  could  not  bear  to  think  that  man,  a  being 
of  clay,  should  possess  the  inheritance  which  he  by  his 
sin  had  forfeited  for  ever.  He  came  to  the  woman,  the 
weaker  vessel,  and  poured  the  poison  of  his  eloquence 
into  her  ear,  promising  her  —  0,  the  blasphemy  of  that 
promise !  —  that  if  she  and  Adam  ate  of  the  forbidden 

[134] 


fruit  they  would  become  as  gods,  nay  as  God  Himself. 
Eve  yielded  to  the  wiles  of  the  arch  tempter.  She  ate 
the  apple  and  gave  it  also  to  Adam  who  had  not  the 
moral  courage  to  resist  her.  The  poison  tongue  of  Satan 
had  done  its  work.    They  fell. 

—  And  then  the  voice  of  God  was  heard  in  that  garden, 
calling  His  creature  man  to  account :  and  Michael,  prince 
of  the  heavenly  host,  with  a  sword  of  flame  in  his  hand, 
appeared  before  the  guilty  pair  and  drove  them  forth 
from  Eden  into  the  world,  the  world  of  sickness  and 
striving,  of  cruelty  and  disappointment,  of  labour  and 
hardship,  to  earn  their  bread  in  the  sweat  of  their  brow. 
But  even  then  how  merciful  was  God !  He  took  pity  on 
our  poor  degraded  parents  and  promised  that  in  the 
fulness  of  time  He  would  send  down  from  heaven  One 
who  would  redeem  them,  make  them  once  more  children 
of  God  and  heirs  to  the  kingdom  of  heaven:  and  that 
One,  that  Eedeemer  of  fallen  man,  was  to  be  God's  only- 
begotten  Son,  the  Second  Person  of  the  Most  Blessed 
Trinity,  the  Eternal  Word. 

—  He  came.  He  was  born  of  a  virgin  pure,  Mary  the 
virgin  mother.  He  was  bom  in  a  poor  cowhouse  in 
Judea  and  lived  as  a  humble  carpenter  for  thirty  years 
until  the  hour  of  his  mission  had  come.  And  then,  filled 
with  love  for  men.  He  went  forth  and  called  to  men  to 
hear  the  new  gospel. 

—  Did  they  listen?  Yes,  they  listened  but  would  not 
hear.  He  was  seized  and  bound  like  a  common  criminal, 
mocked  at  as  a  fool,  set  aside  to  give  place  to  a  public 
robber,  scourged  with  five  thousand  lashes,  crowned 
with  a  crown  of  thorns,  hustled  through  the  streets  by 
the  Jewish  rabble  and  the  Eoman  soldiery,  stripped  of 
his  garments  and  hanged  upon  a  gibbet  and  His  side 

[135] 


was  pierced  with  a  lance  and  from  the  wounded  body  of 
our  Lord  water  and  blood  issued  continually. 

—  Yet  even  then,  in  that  hour  of  supreme  agony,  Our 
Merciful  Eedeemer  had  pity  for  mankind.  Yet  even 
there,  on  the  hill  of  Calvary,  He  founded  the  Holy 
Catholic  Church  against  which,  it  is  promised,  the  gates 
of  hell  shall  not  prevail.  He  founded  it  upon  the  rock 
of  ages  and  endowed  it  with  His  grace,  with  sacraments 
and  sacrifice,  and  promised  that  if  men  would  obey  the 
word  of  His  Church  they  would  still  enter  into  eternal 
life,  but  if,  after  all  that  had  been  done  for  them,  they 
still  persisted  in  their  wickedness  there  remained  for 
them  an  eternity  of  torment :  hell. 

The  preacher's  voice  sank.  He  paused,  joined  his 
palms  for  an  instant,  parted  them.     Then  he  resumed : 

—  Now  let  us  try  for  a  moment  to  realise,  as  far  as  we 
can,  the  nature  of  that  abode  of  the  damned  which  the 
justice  of  an  offended  God  has  called  into  existence  for 
the  eternal  punishment  of  sinners.  Hell  is  a  strait  and 
dark  and  foul  smelling  prison,  an  abode  of  demons  and 
lost  souls,  filled  with  fire  and  smoke.  The  straitness  of 
this  prison  house  is  expressly  designed  by  God  to  punish 
those  who  refused  to  be  bound  by  His  laws.  In  earthly 
prisons  the  poor  captive  has  at  least  some  liberty  of 
movement,  were  it  only  within  the  four  walls  of  his  cell 
or  in  the  gloomy  yard  of  his  prison.  Not  so  in  hell. 
There,  by  reason  of  the  great  number  of  the  damned,  the 
prisoners  are  heaped  together  in  their  awful  prison,  the 
walls  of  which  are  said  to  be  four  thousand  miles  thick : 
and  the  damned  are  so  utterly  bound  and  helpless  that, 
as  a  blessed  saint,  Saint  Anselm,  writes  in  his  book  on 
Similitudes,  they  are  not  even  able  to  remove  from  the 
eye  a  worm  that  gnaws  it. 

[136] 


—  They  lie  in  exterior  darkness.  For,  remember,  the 
fire  of  hell  gives  forth  no  light.  As,  at  the  command  of 
God,  the  fire  of  the  Babylonian  furnace  lost  its  heat  but 
not  its  light  so,  at  the  command  of  God,  the  fire  of  hell, 
while  retaining  the  intensity  of  its  heat,  bums  eternally 
in  darkness.  It  is  a  neverending  storm  of  darkness,  dark 
flames  and  dark  smoke  of  burning  brimstone,  amid  which 
the  bodies  are  heaped  one  upon  another  without  even 
a  glimpse  of  air.  Of  all  the  plagues  with  which  the  land 
of  the  Pharaohs  was  smitten  one  plague  alone,  that  of 
darkness,  was  called  horrible.  What  name,  then,  shall 
we  give  to  the  darkness  of  hell  which  is  to  last  not  for 
three  days  alone  but  for  all  eternity? 

—  The  horror  of  this  strait  and  dark  prison  is  increased 
by  its  awful  stench.  All  the  filth  of  the  world,  all  the 
oifal  and  scum  of  the  world,  we  are  told,  shall  run  there 
as  to  a  vast  reeking  sewer  when  the  terrible  conflagration 
of  the  last  day  has  purged  the  world.  The  brimstone, 
too,  which  burns  there  in  such  prodigious  quantity  fills 
all  hell  with  its  intolerable  stench ;  and  the  bodies  of  the 
damned  themselves  exhale  such  a  pestilential  odour  that 
as  Saint  Bona  venture  says,  one  of  them  alone  would, 
suffice  to  infect  the  whole  world.  The  very  air  of  this 
world,  that  pure  element,  becomes  foul  and  unbreathable 
when  it  has  been  long  enclosed.  Consider  then  what 
must  be  the  foulness  of  the  air  of  hell.  Imagine  some 
foul  and  putrid  corpse  that  has  lain  rotting  and  decom- 
posing in  the  grave,  a  jellylike  mass  of  liquid  corrup- 
tion. Imagine  such  a  corpse  a  prey  to  flames,  devoured 
by  the  fire  of  burning  brimstone  and  giving  off  dense 
choking  fumes  of  nauseous  loathsome  decomposition. 
And  then  imagine  this  sickening  stench,  multiplied  a 
millionfold  and  a  millionfold  again  from  the  millions 

[137] 


upon  millions  of  fetid  carcasses  massed  together  in  the 
reeking  darkness,  a  huge  and  rotting  human  fungus. 
Imagine  all  this  and  you  will  have  some  idea  of  the  horror 
of  the  stench  of  hell. 

—  But  this  stench  is  not,  horrible  though  it  is,  the  great- 
est physical  torment  to  which  the  damned  are  subjected. 
The  torment  of  fire  is  the  greatest  torment  to  which  the 
tyrant  has  ever  subjected  his  fellow  creatures.  Place 
your  finger  for  a  moment  in  the  flame  of  a  candle  and  you 
will  feel  the  pain  of  fire.  But  our  earthly  fire  was  created 
by  God  for  the  benefit  of  man,  to  maintain  in  him  the 
spark  of  life  and  to  help  him  in  the  useful  arts  whereas 
ihe  fire  of  hell  is  of  another  quality  and  was  created  by 
God  to  torture  and  punish  the  unrepentant  sinner.  Our 
earthly  fire  also  consumes  more  or  less  rapidly  according 
as  the  object  which  it  attacks  is  more  or  less  combustible 
so  that  human  ingenuity  has  even  succeeded  in  inventing 
chemical  preparations  to  check  or  frustrate  its  action. 
But  the  sulphurous  brimstone  which  burns  in  hell  is  a 
substance  which  is  specially  designed  to  burn  for  ever 
and  for  ever  with  unspeakable  fury.  Moreover  our 
earthly  fire  destroys  at  the  same  time  as  it  burns  so  that 
the  more  intense  it  is  the  shorter  is  its  duration :  but  the 
fire  of  hell  has  this  property  that  it  preserves  that  which 
it  burns  and  though  it  rages  with  incredible  intensity  it 
rages  for  ever. 

—  Our  earthly  fire  again,  no  matter  how  fierce  or  wide- 
spread it  may  be,  is  always  of  a  limited  extent :  but  the 
lake  of  fire  in  hell  is  boundless,  shoreless  and  bottomless. 
It  is  on  record  that  the  devil  himself,  when  asked  the 
question  by  a  certain  soldier,  was  obliged  to  confess  that 
if  a  whole  mountain  were  thrown  into  the  burning  ocean 
of  hell  it  would  be  burned  up  in  an  instant  like  a  piece 

[138]. 


of  wax.  And  this  terrible  fire  will  not  afflict  the  bodies 
of  the  damned  only  from  without  but  each  lost  soul  will 
be  a  hell  unto  itself,  the  boundless  fire  raging  in  its  very- 
vitals.  0,  how  terrible  is  the  lot  of  those  wretched 
beings!  The  blood  seethes  and  boils  in  the  veins,  the 
brains  are  boiling  in  the  skull,  the  heart  in  the  breast 
glowing  and  bursting,  the  bowels  a  redhot  mass  of  burn- 
ing pulp,  the  tender  eyes  flaming  like  molten  balls. 

— •  And  yet  what  I  have  said  as  to  the  strength  and  qual- 
ity and  boundlessness  of  this  fire  is  as  nothing  when  com- 
pared to  its  intensity,  an  intensity  which  it  has  as  being 
the  instrument  chosen  by  divine  design  for  the  punish- 
ment of  soul  and  body  alike.  It  is  a  fire  which  proceeds 
directly  from  the  ire  of  God,  working  not  of  its  own 
activity  but  as  an  instrument  of  divine  vengeance.  As 
the  waters  of  baptism  cleanse  the  soul  with  the  body  so 
do  the  fires  of  punishment  torture  the  spirit  with  the 
flesh.  Every  sense  of  the  flesh  is  tortured  and  every 
faculty  of  the  soul  therewith :  the  eyes  with  impenetrable 
utter  darkness,  the  nose  with  noisome  odours,  the  ears 
with  yells  and  howls  and  execrations,  the  taste  with 
foul  matter,  leprous  corruption,  nameless  suffocating 
filth,  the  touch  with  redhot  goads  and  spikes,  with  cruel 
tongues  of  flame.  And  through  the  several  torments  of 
the  senses  the  immortal  soul  is  tortured  eternally  in  its 
very  essence  amid  the  leagues  upon  leagues  of  glowing 
fires  kindled  in  the  abyss  by  the  offended  majesty  of  the 
Omnipotent  God  and  fanned  into  everlasting  and  ever 
increasing  fury  by  the  breath  of  the  anger  of  the  God- 
head. 

—  Consider  finally  that  the  torment  of  this  infernal 
prison  is  increased  by  the  company  of  the  damned  them- 
selves.   Evil  company  on  earth  is  so  noxious  that  the 

[139] 


plants,  as  if  by  instinct,  withdraw  from  the  company  of 
whatsoever  is  deadly  or  hurtful  to  them.  In  hell  all  laws 
are  overturned  —  there  is  no  thought  of  family  or  coun- 
try, of  ties,  of  relationships.  The  damned  howl  and 
scream  at  one  another,  their  torture  and  rage  intensified 
by  the  presence  of  beings  tortured  and  raging  like  them- 
selves. All  sense  of  humanity  is  forgotten.  The  yells  of 
the  suffering  sinners  fill  the  remotest  corners  of  the  vast 
abyss.  The  mouths  of  the  damned  are  full  of  blasphemies 
against  God  and  of  hatred  for  their  fellow  sufferers  and 
of  curses  against  those  souls  which  were  their  accomplices 
in  sin.  In  olden  times  it  was  the  custom  to  punish  the 
parricide,  the  man  who  had  raised  his  murderous  hand 
against  his  father,  by  casting  him  into  the  depths  of  the 
sea  in  a  sack  in  which  were  placed  a  cock,  a  monkey  and  a 
serpent.  The  intention  of  those  law-givers  who  framed 
such  a  law,  which  seems  cruel  in  our  times,  was  to  punish 
the  criminal  by  the  company  of  hurtful  and  hateful 
beasts.  But  what  is  the  fury  of  those  dumb  beasts  com- 
pared with  the  fury  of  execration  which  bursts  from  the 
parched  lips  and  aching  throats  of  the  damned  in  hell 
when  they  behold  in  their  companions  in  misery  those 
who  aided  and  abetted  them  in  sin,  those  whose  words 
sowed  the  first  seeds  of  evil  thinking  and  evil  living  in 
their  minds,  those  whose  immodest  suggestions  led  them 
on  to  sin,  those  whose  eyes  tempted  and  allured  them 
from  the  path  of  virtue.  They  turn  upon  those  accom- 
plices and  upbraid  them  and  curse  them.  But  they  are 
helpless  and  hopeless :  it  is  too  late  now  for  repentance. 

—  Last  of  all  consider  the  frightful  torment  to  those 
damned  souls,  tempters  and  tempted  alike,  of  the  com- 
pany of  the  devils.  These  devils  will  afflict  the  damned 
in  two  ways,  by  their  presence  and  by  their  reproaches. 

[140] 


We  can  have  no  idea  of  how  horrible  these  devils  are. 
Saint  Catherine  of  Siena  once  saw  a  devil,  and  she  has 
written  that,  rather  than  look  again  for  one  single  in- 
stant on  such  a  frightful  monster,  she  would  prefer  to 
walk  until  the  end  of  her  life  along  a  track  of  red  coals. 
These  devils,  who  were  once  beautiful  angels,  have  be- 
come as  hideous  and  ugly  as  they  once  were  beautiful. 
They  mock  and  jeer  at  the  lost  souls  whom  they 
dragged  down  to  ruin.  It  is  they,  the  foul  demons,  who 
are  made  in  hell  the  voices  of  conscience.  Why  did  you 
sin?  Why  did  you  lend  an  ear  to  the  temptings  of 
friends?  Why  did  you  turn  aside  from  your  pious 
practices  and  good  works?  Why  did  you  not  shun  the 
occasions  of  sin?  Why  did  you  not  leave  that  evil 
companion  ?  Why  did  you  not  give  up  that  lewd  habit, 
that  impure  habit?  Why  did  you  not  listen  to  the 
counsels  of  your  confessor  ?  Why  did  you  not,  even  after 
you  had  fallen  the  first  or  the  second  or  the  third  or  the 
fourth  or  the  hundredth  time,  repent  of  your  evil  ways 
and  turn  to  God  who  only  waited  for  your  repentance  to 
absolve  you  of  your  sins  ?  Now  the  time  for  repentance 
has  gone  by.  Time  is,  time  was,  but  time  shall  be  no 
more!  Time  was  to  sin  in  secrecy,  to  indulge  in  that 
sloth  and  pride,  to  covet  the  unlawful,  to  yield  to  the 
promptings  of  your  lower  nature,  to  live  like  the  beasts 
of  the  field,  nay  worse  than  the  beasts  of  the  field  for 
they,  at  least,  are  but  brutes  and  have  not  reason  to 
guide  them:  time  was  but  time  shall  be  no  more.  God 
spoke  to  you  by  so  many  voices  but  you  would  not  hear. 
You  would  not  crush  out  that  pride  and  anger  in  your 
heart,  you  would  not  restore  those  ill-gotten  goods,  you 
would  not  obey  the  precepts  of  your  holy  church  nor 
attend  to  your  religious  duties,  you  would  not  abandon 

[141] 


those  wicked  companions,  you  would  not  avoid  those 
dangerous  temptations.  Such  is  the  language  of  those 
fiendish  tormentors,  words  of  taunting  and  of  reproach, 
of  hatred  and  of  disgust.  Of  disgust,  Yes!  For  even 
they,  the  very  devils,  when  they  sinned,  sinned  by  such  a 
sin  as  alone  was  compatible  with  such  angelical  natures,  a 
rebellion  of  the  intellect:  and  they,  even  they,  the  foul 
devils  must  turn  away,  revolted  and  disgusted,  from  the 
contemplation  of  those  unspeakable  sins  by  which  de- 
graded man  outrages  and  defiles  the  temple  of  the  Holy 
Ghost,  defiles  and  pollutes  himself. 

—  0,  my  dear  little  brothers  in  Christ,  may  it  never  be 
our  lot  to  hear  that  language !  May  it  never  be  our  lot, 
I  say!  In  the  last  day  of  terrible  reckoning  I  pray 
fervently  to  God  that  not  a  single  soul  of  those  who  are 
in  this  chapel  today  may  be  found  among  those  miser- 
able beings  whom  the  Great  Judge  shall  command  to 
depart  for  ever  from  His  sight,  that  not  one  of  us  may 
ever  hear  ringing  in  his  ears  the  awful  sentence  of  re- 
jection :  Depart  from  me,  ye  cursed,  into  everlasting  fire 
which  was  prepared  for  the  devil  and  his  angels!  — 

He  came  down  the  aisle  of  the  chapel,  his  legs  shaking 
and  the  scalp  of  his  head  trembling  as  though  it  had 
been  touched  by  ghostly  fingers.  He  passed  up  the  stair- 
case and  into  the  corridor  along  the  walls  of  which  the 
overcoats  and  waterproofs  hung  like  gibbeted  male- 
factors, headless  and  dripping  and  shapeless.  And  at 
every  step  he  feared  that  he  had  already  died,  that  his 
soul  had  been  wrenched  forth  of  the  sheath  of  his  body, 
that  he  was  plunging  headlong  through  space. 

He  could  not  grip  the  floor  with  his  feet  and  sat 
heavily  at  his  desk,  opening  one  of  his  books  at  random 
and  poring  over  it.    Every  word  for  him !    It  was  true. 

[142] 


God  was  almighty.  God  could  call  him  now,  call  him  as 
he  sat  at  his  desk,  before  he  had  time  to  be  conscious  of 
the  summons.  God  had  called  him.  Yes?  What? 
Yes  ?  His  flesh  shrank  together  as  it  felt  the  approach  of 
the  ravenous  tongues  of  flames,  dried  up  as  it  felt  about 
it  the  swirl  of  stifling  air.  He  had  died.  Yes.  He  was 
judged.  A  wave  of  fire  swept  through  his  body :  the  first. 
Again  a  wave.  His  brain  began  to  glow.  Another.  His 
brain  was  simmering  and  bubbling  within  the  cracking 
tenement  of  the  skull.  Flames  burst  forth  from  his  skull 
like  a  corolla,  shrieking  like  voices : 

—  Hell!    Hell!    Hell!    Hell!    HeU!  — 
Voices  spoke  near  him : 

—  On  hell.— 

—  I  suppose  he  rubbed  it  into  you  well. — 

—  You  bet  he  did.    He  put  us  all  into  a  blue  funk. — 

—  That's  what  you  fellows  want:  and  plenty  of  it  to 
make  you  work. — 

He  leaned  back  weakly  in  his  desk.  He  had  not  died. 
God  had  spared  him  still.  He  was  still  in  the  familiar 
world  of  the  school.  Mr  Tate  and  Vincent  Heron  stood 
at  the  window,  talking,  jesting,  gazing  out  at  the  bleak 
rain,  moving  their  heads. 

—  I  wish  it  would  clear  up.  I  had  arranged  to  go  for 
a  spin  on  the  bike  with  some  fellows  out  by  Malahide. 
But  the  roads  must  be  kneedeep. — 

—  It  might  clear  up,  sir. — 

The  voices  that  he  knew  so  well;  the  common  words, 
the  quiet  of  the  classroom  when  the  voices  paused  and 
the  silence  was  filled  by  the  sound  of  softly  browsing 
cattle  as  the  other  boys  munched  their  lunches  tranquilly 
lulled  his  aching  soul. 

There  was  still  time.  0  Mary,  refuge  of  sinners,  in- 
[143] 


tercede  for  him!     0  Virgin  Undefiled,  save  him  from 
the  gulf  of  death ! 

The  English  lesson  began  with  the  hearing  of  the 
history.  Royal  persons,  favourites,  intriguers,  bishops, 
passed  like  mute  phantoms  behind  their  veil  of  names. 
All  had  died :  all  had  been  judged.  What  did  it  profit  a 
man  to  gain  the  whole  world  if  he  lost  his  soul  ?  At  last 
he  had  understood:  and  human  life  lay  around  him,  a 
plain  of  peace  whereon  antlike  men  laboured  in  brother- 
hood, their  dead  sleeping  under  quiet  mounds.  The 
elbow  of  his  companion  touched  him  and  his  heart  was 
touched :  and  when  he  spoke  to  answer  a  question  of  his 
master  he  heard  his  own  voice  full  of  the  quietude  of 
humility  and  contrition. 

His  soul  sank  back  deeper  into  depths  of  contrite 
peace,  no  longer  able  to  suffer  the  pain  of  dread,  and 
sending  forth,  as  she  sank,  a  faint  prayer.  Ah  yes,  he 
would  still  be  spared ;  he  would  repent  in  his  heart  and 
be  forgiven;  and  then  those  above,  those  in  heaven, 
would  see  what  he  would  do  to  make  up  for  the  past :  a 
whole  life,  every  hour  of  life.     Only  wait. 

—  All,  God!     All,  all!  — 

A  messenger  came  to  the  door  to  say  that  confessions 
were  being  heard  in  the  chapel.  Four  boys  left  the 
room;  and  he  heard  others  passing  down  the  corridor. 
A  tremulous  chill  blew  round  his  heart,  no  stronger  than 
a  little  wind,  and  yet,  listening  and  suffering  silently,  he 
seemed  to  have  laid  an  ear  against  the  muscle  of  his  own 
heart,  feeling  it  close  and  quail,  listening  to  the  flutter 
of  its  ventricles. 

No  escape.  He  had  to  confess,  to  speak  out  in  words 
what  he  had  done  and  thought,  sin  after  sin.  How? 
How? 

[144] 


—  Father,  I  .  .  .— 

The  thought  slid  like  a  cold  shining  rapier  into  his 
tender  flesh :  confession.  But  not  there  in  the  chapel  of 
the  college.  He  would  confess  all,  every  sin  of  deed 
and  thought,  sincerely:  but  not  there  among  his  school 
companions.  Far  away  from  there  in  some  dark  place 
he  would  murmur  out  his  own  shame:  and  he  besought 
God  humbly  not  to  be  offended  with  him  if  he  did  not 
dare  to  confess  in  the  college  chapel :  and  in  utter  abjec- 
tion of  spirit  he  craved  forgiveness  mutely  of  the  boyish 
hearts  about  him. 

Time  passed. 

He  sat  again  in  the  front  bench  of  the  chapel.  The 
daylight  without  was  already  failing  and,  as  it  fell 
slowly  through  the  dull  red  blinds,  it  seemed  that  the  sun 
of  the  last  day  was  going  down  and  that  all  souls  were 
being  gathered  for  the  judgment. 

—  I  am  cast  away  from  the  sight  of  Thine  eyes:  words 
taken,  my  dear  little  brothers  in  Christ,  from  the  Book 
of  Psalms,  thirtieth  chapter,  twenty-third  verse,  In  the 
name  of  the  Father  and  of  the  Son  and  of  the  Holy 
Ghost.    Amen. 

The  preacher  began  to  speak  in  a  quiet  friendly  tone. 
His  face  was  kind  and  he  joined  gently  the  fingers  of 
each  hand,  forming  a  frail  cage  by  the  union  of  their 
tips. 

—  This  morning  we  endeavoured,  in  our  reflection 
upon  hell,  to  make  what  our  holy  founder  calls  in  his 
book  of  spiritual  exercises,  the  composition  of  place. 
We  endeavoured,  that  is,  to  imagine  with  the  senses  of 
the  mind,  in  our  imagination,  the  material  character  of 
that  awful  place  and  of  the  physical  torments  which  all 
who  are  in  hell  endure.    This  evening  we  shall  consider 

[145] 


for  a  few  moments  the  nature  of  the  spiritual  torments 
of  hell. 

—  Sin,  remember,  is  a  twofold  enormity.  It  is  a  base 
consent  to  the  promptings  of  our  corrupt  nature  to  the 
lower  instincts,  to  that  which  is  gross  and  beastlike; 
and  it  is  also  a  turning  away  from  the  counsel  of  our 
higher  nature,  from  all  that  is  pure  and  holy,  from  the 
Holy  God  Himself.  For  this  reason  mortal  sin  is 
punished  in  hell  by  two  different  forms  of  punishment, 
physical  and  spiritual. 

Now  of  all  these  spiritual  pains  by  far  the  greatest 
is  the  pain  of  loss,  so  great,  in  fact,  that  in  itself  it  is 
a  torment  greater  than  all  the  others.  Saint  Thomas, 
the  greatest  doctor  of  the  Church,  the  angelic  doctor,  as 
he  is  called,  says  that  the  worst  damnation  consists  in 
this  that  the  understanding  of  man  is  totally  deprived 
of  Divine  light  and  his  affection  obstinately  turned 
away  from  the  goodness  of  God.  God,  remember,  is  a 
being  infinitely  good  and  therefore  the  loss  of  such  a 
being  must  be  a  loss  infinitely  painful.  In  this  life  we 
have  not  a  very  clear  idea  of  what  such  a  loss  must  be 
but  the  damned  in  hell,  for  their  greater  torment,  have 
a  full  understanding  of  that  which  they  have  lost  and 
understand  that  they  have  lost  it  through  their  own  sins 
and  have  lost  it  for  ever.  At  the  very  instant  of  death 
the  bonds  of  the  flesh  are  broken  asunder  and  the  soul 
at  once  flies  towards  God  as  towards  the  centre  of  her 
existence.  Remember,  my  dear  little  boys,  our  souls 
long  to  be  with  God.  We  come  from  God,  we  live  by 
God,  we  belong  to  God:  we  are  His,  inalienably  His. 
God  loves  with  a  divine  love  every  human  soul  and 
every  human  soul  lives  in  that  love.  How  could  it  be 
otherwise?    Every  breath  that  we  draw,  every  thought 

[146] 


of  our  brain,  every  instant  of  life  proceed  from  God's 
inexhaustible  goodness.  And  if  it  be  pain  for  a  mother 
to  be  parted  from  her  child,  for  a  man  to  be  exiled  from 
hearth  and  home,  for  friend  to  be  sundered  from  friend, 
0  think  what  pain,  what  anguish,  it  must  be  for  the 
poor  soul  to  be  spurned  from  the  presence  of  the 
supremely  good  and  loving  Creator  Who  has  called  that 
soul  into  existence  from  nothingness  and  sustained  it 
in  life  and  loved  it  with  an  immeasurable  love.  This, 
then,  to  be  separated  for  ever  from  its  greatest  good, 
from  God,  and  to  feel  the  anguish  of  that  separation, 
knowing  full  well  that  it  is  unchangeable,  this  is  the 
greatest  torment  which  the  created  soul  is  capable  of 
bearing,  po&na  damni,  the  pain  of  loss. 

The  second  pain  which  will  afflict  the  souls  of  the 
damned  in  hell  is  the  pain  of  conscience.  Just  as  in  dead 
bodies  worms  are  engendered  by  putrefaction  so  in  the 
souls  of  the  lost  there  arises  a  perpetual  remorse  from 
the  putrefaction  of  sin,  the  sting  of  conscience,  the 
worm,  as  Pope  Innocent  the  Third  calls  it,  of  the  triple 
sting.  The  first  sting  inflicted  by  this  cruel  worm  will 
be  the  memory  of  past  pleasures.  0  what  a  dreadful 
memory  will  that  be !  In  the  lake  of  alldevouring  flame 
the  proud  king  will  remember  the  pomps  of  his  court, 
the  wise  but  wicked  man  his  libraries  and  instruments 
of  research,  the  lover  of  artistic  pleasures  his  marbles 
and  pictures  and  other  art  treasures,  he  who  delighted 
in  the  pleasures  of  the  table  his  gorgeous  feasts,  his 
dishes  prepared  with  such  delicacy,  his  choice  wires,  the 
miser  will  remember  his  hoard  of  gold,  the  robber  his 
illgotten  wealth,  the  angry  and  revengeful  and  merciless 
murderers  their  deeds  of  blood  and  violence  in  which  they 
revelled,  the  impure  and  adulterous  the  unspeakably 

[147], 


and  filthy  pleasures  in  which  they  delighted.  They  will 
remember  all  this  and  loathe  themselves  and  their  sins. 
For  how  miserable  will  all  those  pleasures  seem  to  the 
soul  condemned  to  suffer  in  hell-fire  for  ages  and  ages. 
How  they  will  rage  and  fume  to  think  that  they  have 
lost  the  bliss  of  heaven  for  the  dross  of  earth,  for  a  few 
pieces  of  metal,  for  vain  honours,  for  bodily  comforts, 
for  a  tingling  of  the  nerves.  They  will  repent  indeed: 
and  this  is  the  second  sting  of  the  worm  of  conscience, 
a  late  and  fruitless  sorrow  for  sins  committed.  Divine 
justice  insists  that  the  understanding  of  those  miserable 
wretches  be  fixed  continually  on  the  sins  of  which  they 
were  guilty  and  moreover,  as  Saint  Augustine  points  out, 
God  will  impart  to  them  His  own  knowledge  of  sin  so 
that  sin  will  appear  to  them  in  all  its  hideous  malice  as 
it  appears  to  the  eyes  of  God  Himself.  They  will  be- 
hold their  sins  in  all  their  foulness  and  repent  but  it 
will  be  too  late  and  then  they  will  bewail  the  good  oc- 
casions which  they  neglected.  This  is  the  last  and  deep- 
est and  most  cruel  sting  of  the  worm  of  conscience.  The 
conscience  will  say:  You  had  time  and  opportunity  to 
repent  and  would  not.  You  were  brought  up  religiously 
by  your  parents.  You  had  the  sacraments  and  graces 
and  indulgences  of  the  church  to  aid  you.  You  had  the 
minister  of  God  to  preach  to  you  to  call  you  back  when 
you  had  strayed,  to  forgive  you  your  sins,  no  matter  how 
many,  how  abominable,  if  only  you  had  confessed  and 
repented.  No.  You  would  not.  You  flouted  the  min- 
isters of  holy  religion,  you  turned  your  back  on  the  con- 
fessional, you  wallowed  deeper  and  deeper  in  the  mire  of 
sin.  God  appealed  to  you,  threatened  you,  entreated  you 
to  return  to  him.  0,  what  shame,  what  misery!  The 
Ruler  of  the  universe  entreated  you^  a  creature  of  clay, 

[148J: 


to  love  Him  "Who  made  you  and  to  keep  His  law.  No. 
You  would  not.  And  now,  though  you  were  to  flood  all 
hell  with  your  tears  if  you  could  still  weep,  all  that  sea 
of  repentance  would  not  gain  for  you  what  a  single  tear 
of  true  repentance  shed  during  your  mortal  life  would 
have  gained  for  you.  You  implore  now  a  moment  of 
earthly  life  wherein  to  repent:  in  vain.  That  time  is 
gone :  gone  for  ever. 

—  Such  is  the  threefold  sting  of  conscience,  the  viper 
which  gnaws  the  very  heart's  core  of  the  wretches  in 
hell  so  that  filled  with  hellish  fury  they  curse  themselves 
for  their  folly  and  curse  the  evil  companions  who  have 
brought  them  to  such  ruin  and  curse  the  devils  who 
tempted  them  in  life  and  now  mock  them  in  eternity 
and  even  revile  and  curse  the  Supreme  Being  Whose 
goodness  and  patience  they  scorned  and  slighted  but 
Whose  justice  and  power  they  cannot  evade. 

—  The  next  spiritual  pain  to  which  the  damned  are 
subjected  is  the  pain  of  extension.  Man,  in  this  earthly 
life,  though  he  be  capable  of  many  evils,  is  not  capable 
of  them  all  at  once  inasmuch  as  one  evil  corrects  and 
counteracts  another,  just  as  one  poison  frequently  cor- 
rects another.  In  hell,  on  the  contrary,  one  torment, 
instead  of  counteracting  another,  lends  it  still  greater 
force :  and,  moreover,  as  the  internal  faculties  are  more 
perfect  than  the  external  senses,  so  are  they  more 
capable  of  suffering.  Just  as  every  sense  is  afflicted  with 
a  fitting  torment  so  is  every  spiritual  faculty;  the 
fancy  with  horrible  images,  the  sensitive  faculty  with 
alternate  longing  and  rage,  the  mind  and  understanding 
with  an  interior  darkness  more  terrible  even  than  the 
exterior  darkness  which  reigns  in  that  dreadful  prison. 
The   malice,    impotent   though   it   be,   which   possesses 

[149] 


these  demon  souls  is  an  evil  of  boundless  extension,  of 
limitless  duration,  a  frightful  state  of  wickedness  which 
we  can  scarcely  realise  unless  we  bear  in  mind  the 
enormity  of  sin  and  the  hatred  God  bears  to  it. 

—  Opposed  to  this  pain  of  extension  and  yet  co-exist- 
ent with  it  we  have  the  pain  of  intensity.  Hell  is  the  cen- 
tre of  evils  and,  as  you  know,  things  are  more  intense  at 
their  centres  than  at  their  remotest  points.  There  are 
no  contraries  or  admixtures  of  any  kind  to  temper  or 
soften  in  the  least  the  pains  of  hell.  Nay,  things  which 
are  good  in  themselves  become  evil  in  hell.  Company, 
elsewhere  a  source  of  comfort  to  the  afflicted,  will  be 
there  a  continual  torment:  knowledge,  so  much  longed 
for  as  the  chief  good  of  the  intellect,  will  there  be  hated 
worse  than  ignorance:  light,  so  much  coveted  by  all 
creatures  from  the  lord  of  creation  down  to  the  humblest 
plant  in  the  forest,  will  be  loathed  intensely.  In  this 
life  our  sorrows  are  either  not  very  long  or  not  very 
great  because  nature  either  overcomes  them  by  habits 
or  puts  an  end  to  them  by  sinking  under  their  weight. 
But  in  hell  the  torments  cannot  be  overcome  by  habit, 
for  while  they  are  of  terrible  intensity  they  are  at  the 
same  time  of  continual  variety,  each  pain,  so  to  speak, 
taking  fire  from  another  and  re-endowing  that  which 
has  enkindled  it  with  a  still  fiercer  flame.  Nor  can 
nature  escape  from  these  intense  and  various  tortures 
by  succumbing  to  them  for  the  soul  is  sustained  and 
maintained  in  evil  so  that  its  suffering  may  be  the 
greater.  Boundless  extension  of  torment,  incredible  in- 
tensity of  suffering,  unceasing  variety  of  torture  —  this 
is  what  the  divine  majesty,  so  outraged  by  sinners, 
demands,  this  is  what  the  holiness  of  heaven,  slighted 
and  set  aside  for  the  lustful  and  low  plea^ure^  of  the 

1150] 


corrupt  flesh,  requires,  this  is  what  the  blood  of  the 
innocent  Lamb  of  God,  shed  for  the  redemption  of  sin- 
ners, trampled  upon  by  the  vilest  of  the  vile,  insists 
upon. 

—  Last  and  crowning  torture  of  all  the  tortures  of  that 
awful  place  is  the  eternity  of  hell.  Eternity !  0,  dread 
and  dire  word.  Eternity!  What  mind  of  man  can 
understand  it?  And  remember,  it  is  an  eternity  of 
pain.  Even  though  the  pains  of  hell  were  not  so  ter- 
rible as  they  are  yet  they  would  become  infinite  as  they 
are  destined  to  last  for  ever.  But  while  they  are  ever- 
lasting they  are  at  the  same  time,  as  you  know,  in- 
tolerably intense,  unbearably  extensive.  To  bear  even 
the  sting  of  an  insect  for  all  eternity  would  be  a  dread- 
ful torment.  What  must  it  be,  then,  to  bear  the  mani- 
fold tortures  of  hell  for  ever?  For  ever!  For  all 
eternity!  Not  for  a  year  or  for  an  age  but  for  ever. 
Try  to  imagine  the  awful  meaning  of  this.  You  have 
often  seen  the  sand  on  the  seashore.  How  fine  are  its 
tiny  grains !  And  how  many  of  those  tiny  little  grains 
go  to  make  up  the  small  handful  which  a  child  grasps 
in  its  play.  Now  imagine  a  mountain  of  that  sand,  a 
million  miles  high,  reaching  from  the  earth  to  the 
farthest  heavens,  and  a  million  miles  broad,  extending 
to  remotest  space,  and  a  million  miles  in  thickness :  and 
imagine  such  an  enormous  mass  of  countless  particles 
of  sand  multiplied  as  often  as  there  are  leaves  in  the 
forest,  drops  of  water  in  the  mighty  ocean,  feathers  on 
birds,  scales  on  fish,  hairs  on  animals,  atoms  in  the 
vast  expanse  of  the  air :  and  imagine  that  at  the  end  of 
every  million  years  a  little  bird  came  to  that  mountain 
and  carried  away  in  its  beak  a  tiny  grain  of  that  sand. 
How  many  millions  upon  millions  of  centuries  would 

[151] 


pass  before  that  bird  had  carried  away  even  a  square 
foot  of  that  mountain,  how  many  eons  upon  eons  of 
ages  before  it  had  carried  away  all.  Yet  at  the  end  of 
that  immense  stretch  of  time  not  even  one  instant  of 
eternity  could  be  said  to  have  ended.  At  the  end  of 
all  those  billions  and  trillions  of  years  eternity  would 
have  scarcely  begun.  And  if  that  mountain  rose  again 
after  it  had  been  all  carried  away  and  if  the  bird  came 
again  and  carried  it  all  away  again  grain  by  grain: 
and  if  it  so  rose  and  sank  as  many  times  as  there  are 
stars  in  the  sky,  atoms  in  the  air,  drops  of  water  in  the 
sea,  leaves  on  the  trees,  feathers  u;pon  birds,  scales 
upon  fish,  hairs  upon  animals,  at  the  end  of  all  those 
innumerable  risings  and  sinkings  of  that  immeasur- 
ably vast  mountain  not  one  single  instant  of  eternity 
could  be  said  to  have  ended;  even  then,  at  the  end  of 
such  a  period,  after  that  eon  of  time  the  mere  thought 
of  which  makes  our  very  brain  reel  dizzily,  eternity 
would  have  scarcely  begun. 

—  A  holy  saint  (one  of  our  own  fathers  I  believe  it 
was)  was  once  vouchsafed  a  vision  of  hell.  It  seemed 
to  him  that  he  stood  in  the  midst  of  a  great  hall,  dark 
and  silent  save  for  the  ticking  of  a  great  clock.  The 
ticking  went  on  unceasingly;  and  it  seemed  to  this 
saint  that  the  sound  of  the  ticking  was  the  ceaseless 
repetition  of  the  words :  ever,  never ;  ever,  never.  Ever 
to  be  in  hell,  never  to  be  in  heaven ;  ever  to  be  shut  off 
from  the  presence  of  God,  never  to  enjoy  the  beatific 
vision ;  ever  to  be  eaten  with  flames,  gnawed  by  vermin, 
goaded  with  burning  spikes,  never  to  be  free  from  those 
pains ;  ever  to  have  the  conscience  upbraid  one,  the  mem- 
ory enrage,  the  mind  filled  with  darkness  and  despair, 
never  to  escape;  ever  to  curse  and  revile  the  foul  de- 

[152] 


mons  who  gloat  fiendishly  over  the  misery  of  their  dupes, 
never  to  behold  the  shining  raiment  of  the  blessed 
spirits;  ever  to  cry  out  of  the  abyss  of  fire  to  God  for 
an  instant,  a  single  instant,  of  respite  from  such  awful 
agony,  never  to  receive,  even  for  an  instant,  God's  par- 
don ;  ever  to  suffer,  never  to  enjoy ;  ever  to  be  damned, 
never  to  be  saved ;  ever,  never ;  ever,  never.  0,  what  a 
dreadful  punishment !  An  eternity  of  endless  agony,  of 
endless  bodily  and  spiritual  torment,  without  one  ray  of 
hope,  without  one  moment  of  cessation,  of  agony  limit- 
less in  intensity,  of  torment  infinitely  varied,  of  torture 
that  sustains  eternally  that  which  it  eternally  devours, 
of  anguish  that  everlastingly  preys  upon  the  spirit  while 
it  racks  the  flesh,  an  eternity,  every  instant  of  which  is 
itself  an  eternity  of  woe.  Such  is  the  terrible  punish- 
ment decreed  for  those  who  die  in  mortal  sin  by  an  al- 
mighty and  a  just  God. 

— .Yes,  a  just  God!  Men,  reasoning  always  as  men, 
are  astonished  that  God  should  mete  out  an  everlasting 
and  infinite  punishment  in  the  fires  of  hell  for  a  single 
grievous  sin.  They  reason  thus  because,  blinded  by  the 
gross  illusion  of  the  flesh  and  the  darkness  of  human 
understanding  they  are  unable  to  comprehend  the  hide- 
ous malice  of  mortal  sin.  They  reason  thus  because  they 
are  unable  to  comprehend  that  even  venial  sin  is  of  such 
a  foul  and  hideous  nature  that  even  if  the  omnipotent 
Creator  could  end  all  the  evil  and  misery  in  the  world 
the  wars,  the  diseases,  the  robberies,  the  crime,  the 
deaths,  the  murders,  on  condition  that  he  allowed  a  sin- 
gle venial  sin  to  pass  unpunished,  a  single  venial  sin, 
a  lie,  an  angry  look,  a  moment  of  wilful  sloth.  He,  the 
great  omnipotent  God  could  not  do  so  because  sin,  be  it 
in  thought  or  deed,  is  a  transgression  of  His  law  and 

[153] 


God  would  not  be  God  if  He  did  not  punish  the  trans- 
gressor. 

—  A  sin,  an  instant  of  rebellious  pride  of  the  intellect, 
made  Lucifer  and  a  third  part  of  the  cohorts  of  angels 
fall  from  their  glory.  A  sin,  an  instant  of  folly  and 
weakness,  drove  Adam  and  Eve  out  of  Eden  and 
brought  death  and  suffering  into  the  world.  To  retrieve 
the  consequences  of  that  sin  the  Only  Begotten  Son  of 
God  came  down  to  earth,  lived  and  suffered  and  died  a 
most  painful  death,  hanging  for  three  hours  on  the  cross. 

—  0,  my  dear  little  brethren  in  Christ  Jesus,  will  we 
then  offend  that  good  Redeemer  and  provoke  His  an- 
ger? Will  we  trample  again  upon  that  torn  and  man- 
gled corpse?  Will  we  spit  upon  that  face  so  full  of 
sorrow  and  love  ?  Will  we  too,  like  the  cruel  Jews  and 
the  brutal  soldiers,  mock  that  gentle  and  compassionate 
Saviour  Who  trod  alone  for  our  sake  the  awful  winepress 
of  sorrow?  Every  word  of  sin  is  a  wound  in  His  tender 
side.  Every  sinful  act  is  a  thorn  piercing  His  head. 
Every  impure  thought,  deliberately  yielded  to,  is  a  keen 
lance  transfixing  that  sacred  and  loving  heart.  No,  no. 
It  is  impossible  for  any  human  being  to  do  that  which 
offends  so  deeply  the  divine  Majesty,  that  which  is  pun- 
ished by  an  eternity  of  agony,  that  which  crucifies  again 
the  Son  of  God  and  makes  a  mockery  of  Him. 

—  I  pray  to  God  that  my  poor  words  may  have  availed 
today  to  confirm  in  holiness  those  who  are  in  a  state 
of  grace,  to  strengthen  the  wavering,  to  lead  back  to 
the  state  of  grace  the  poor  soul  that  has  strayed  if  any 
such  be  among  you.  I  pray  to  God,  and  do  you  pray 
with  me,  that  we  may  repent  of  our  sins.  I  will  ask 
you  now,  all  of  you,  to  repeat  after  me  the  act  of  con- 
trition, kneeling  here  in  this  humble  chapel  in  the  pre- 

[154] 


sence  of  God.  He  is  there  in  the  tabernacle  burning 
with  love  for  mankind,  ready  to  comfort  the  aflaicted. 
Be  not  afraid.  No  matter  how  many  or  how  foul  the 
sins  if  only  you  repent  of  them  they  will  be  forgiven 
you.  Let  no  worldly  shame  hold  you  back.  God  is 
still  the  merciful  Lord  who  wishes  not  the  eternal  death 
of  the  sinner  but  rather  that  he  be  converted  and 
live. 

—  He  calls  you  to  Him.  You  are  His.  He  made  you 
out  of  nothing.  He  loved  you  as  only  a  God  can  love. 
His  arms  are  open  to  receive  you  even  though  you  have 
sinned  against  Him.  Come  to  Him,  poor  sinner,  poor 
vain  and  erring  sinner.  Now  is  the  acceptable  time. 
Now  is  the  hour. 

The  priest  rose  and  turning  towards  the  altar  knelt 
upon  the  step  before  the  tabernacle  in  the  fallen  gloom. 
He  waited  till  all  in  the  chapel  had  knelt  and  every  least 
noise  was  still.  Then,  raising  his  head,  he  repeated  the 
act  of  contrition,  phrase  by  phrase,  with  fervour.  The 
boys  answered  him  phrase  by  phrase.  Stephen,  his 
tongue  cleaving  to  his  palate,  bowed  his  head,  praying 
with  his  heart. 

—  0  my  God!  — 

—  0  my  God!  — 

—  I  am  heartily  sorry  — 

—  I  am  heartily  sorry  — 

—  for  having  offended  Thee  — 

—  for  having  offended  Thee  — 

—  and  I  detest  my  sins  — 

—  and  I  detest  my  sins  — 

—  above  every  other  evil  — 

—  above  every  other  evil  — 

[155] 


—  because  they  displease  Thee,  my  God  — 

—  because  they  displease  Thee,  my  God  — 

—  Who  art  so  deserving  — 

—  Who  art  so  deserving  — 

—  of  all  my  love  — 

—  of  all  my  love  — 

—  and  I  firmly  purpose  — 

—  and  I  firmly  purpose  — 

—  by  Thy  Holy  grace  — 

—  by  Thy  Holy  grace  — 

—  never  more  to  of  end  Thee  — 

—  never  more  to  offend  Thee  — 

—  and  to  amend  my  life  — 

—  and  to  amend  my  life  — 

#         #         #         # 

He  went  up  to  his  room  after  dinner  in  order  to  be 
alone  with  his  soul:  and  at  every  step  his  soul  seemed 
to  sigh:  at  every  step  his  soul  mounted  with  his  feet, 
sighing  in  the  ascent,  through  a  region  of  viscid  gloom. 

He  halted  on  the  landing  before  the  door  and  then, 
grasping  the  porcelain  knob,  opened  the  door  quickly. 
He  waited  in  fear,  his  soul  pining  within  him,  praying 
silently  that  death  might  not  touch  his  brow  as  he 
passed  over  the  threshold,  that  the  fiends  that  inhabit 
darkness  might  not  be  given  power  over  him.  He 
waited  still  at  the  threshold  as  at  the  entrance  to  some 
dark  cave.  Faces  were  there;  eyes:  they  waited  and 
watched. 

—  We  knew  perfectly  well  of  course  that  although  it 
was  bound  to  come  to  the  light  he  would  find  consider- 
able difficulty  in  endeavouring  to  try  to  induce  himself 
to  try  to  endeavour  to  ascertain  the  spiritual  plenipo- 
tentiary and  so  we  knew  of  course  perfectly  well  — 

[156] 


Murmuring  faces  waited  and  watched;  murmurous 
voices  filled  the  dark  shell  of  the  cave.  He  feared  in- 
tensely in  spirit  and  in  flesh  but,  raising  his  head  bravely, 
he  strode  into  the  room  firmly.  A  doorway,  a  room,  the 
same  room,  same  window.  He  told  himself  calmly  that 
those  words  had  absolutely  no  sense  which  had  seemed 
to  rise  murmurously  from  the  dark.  He  told  himself 
that  it  was  simply  his  room  with  the  door  open. 

He  closed  the  door  and,  walking  swiftly  to  the  bed, 
knelt  beside  it  and  covered  his  face  with  his  hands. 
His  hands  were  cold  and  damp  and  his  limbs  ached 
with  chill.  Bodily  unrest  and  chill  and  weariness  beset 
him,  routing  his  thoughts.  "Why  was  he  kneeling  there 
like  a  child  saying  his  evening  prayers?  To  be  alone 
with  his  soul,  to  examine  his  conscience,  to  meet  his  sins 
face  to  face,  to  recall  their  times  and  manners  and 
circumstances,  to  weep  over  them.  He  could  not  weep. 
He  could  not  summon  them  to  his  memory.  He  felt 
only  an  ache  of  soul  and  body,  his  whole  being,  memory, 
will,  understanding,  flesh,  benumbed  and  weary. 

That  was  the  work  of  devils,  to  scatter  his  thoughts 
and  overcloud  his  conscience,  assailing  him  at  the  gates 
of  the  cowardly  and  sin  corrupted  flesh:  and,  praying 
God  timidly  to  forgive  him  his  weakness,  he  crawled 
up  on  to  the  bed  and,  wrapping  the  blankets  closely 
about  him,  covered  his  face  again  with  his  hands.  He 
had  sinned.  He  had  sinned  so  deeply  against  heaven 
and  before  God  that  he  was  not  worthy  to  be  called  God's 
child. 

Could  it  be  that  he,  Stephen  Dedalus,  had  done  those 
things?  His  conscience  sighed  in  answer.  Yes,  he  had 
done  them,  secretly,  filthily,  time  after  time  and,  hard- 
ened in  sinful  impenitence,  he  had  dared  to  wear  the 

[157] 


mask  of  holiness  before  the  tabernacle  itself  while  his 
soul  within  was  a  living  mass  of  corruption.  How  came 
it  that  God  had  not  struck  him  dead  ?  The  leprous  com- 
pany of  his  sins  closed  about  him,  breathing  upon  him, 
bending  over  him  from  all  sides.  He  strove  to  forget 
them  in  an  act  of  prayer,  huddling  his  limbs  closer  to- 
gether Rnd  binding  down  his  eyelids:  but  the  senses  of 
his  soul  would  not  be  bound  and,  though  his  eyes  were 
shut  fast,  he  saw  the  places  where  he  had  sinned  and, 
though  his  ears  were  tightly  covered,  he  heard.  He  de- 
sired with  all  his  will  not  to  hear  nor  see.  He  desired 
till  his  frame  shook  under  the  strain  of  his  desire  and 
untU  the  senses  of  his  soul  closed.  They  closed  for  an 
instant  and  then  opened.    He  saw. 

A  field  of  stiff  weeds  and  thistles  and  tufted  nettle- 
bunches.  Thick  among  the  tufts  of  rank  stiff  growth 
lay  battered  canisters  and  clots  and  coils  of  solid  excre- 
ment. A  faint  marsh  light  struggling  upwards  from 
all  the  ordure  through  the  bristling  grey  green  weeds. 
An  evil  smell,  faint  and  foul  as  the  light,  curled  up- 
wards sluggishly  out  of  the  canisters  and  from  the  stale 
crusted  dung. 

Creatures  were  in  the  field;  one,  three,  six:  creatures 
were  moving  in  the  field,  hither  and  thither.  Goatish 
creatures  with  human  faces,  homy  browed,  lightly 
bearded  and  grey  as  indiarubber.  The  malice  of  evil 
glittered  in  their  hard  eyes,  as  they  moved  hither  and 
thither,  trailing  their  long  tails  behind  them.  A  rictus 
of  cruel  malignity  lit  up  greyly  their  old  bony  faces. 
One  was  clasping  about  his  ribs  a  torn  flannel  waist- 
coat, another  complained  monotonously  as  his  beard 
stuck  in  the  tufted  weeds.  Soft  language  issued  from 
their  spittleless  lips  as  they  swished  in  slow  circles  round 

[158] 


and  round  the  field,  winding  hither  and  thither  through 
the  weeds,  dragging  their  long  tails  amid  the  rattling 
canisters.  They  moved  in  slow  circles,  circling  closer 
and  closer  to  enclose,  to  enclose,  soft  language  issuing 
from  their  lips,  their  long  swishing  tails  besmeared  with 
stale  shite,  thrusting  upwards  their  terrific  faces  .  .  . 

Help! 

He  flung  the  blankets  from  him  madly  to  free  his  face 
and  neck.  That  was  his  hell.  God  had  allowed  him  to 
see  the  hell  reserved  for  his  sins:  stinking,  bestial,  ma- 
lignant, a  hell  of  lecherous  goatish  fiends.  For  him! 
For  him! 

He  sprang  from  the  bed,  the  reeking  odour  pouring 
down  his  throat,  clogging  and  revolting  his  entrails. 
Air!  The  air  of  heaven!  He  stumbled  towards  the 
window,  groaning  and  almost  fainting  with  sickness. 
At  the  washstand  a  convulsion  seized  him  within;  and, 
clasping  his  cold  forehead  wildly,  he  vomited  profusely 
in  agony. 

When  the  fit  had  spent  itself  he  walked  weakly  to  the 
window  and  lifting  the  sash,  sat  in  a  comer  of  the 
embrasure  and  leaned  his  elbow  upon  the  sill.  The 
rain  had  drawn  off ;  and  amid  the  moving  vapours  from 
point  to  point  of  light  the  city  was  spinning  about  her- 
self a  soft  cocoon  of  yellowish  haze.  Heaven  was  still 
and  faintly  luminous  and  the  air  sweet  to  breathe,  as 
in  a  thicket  drenched  with  showers:  and  amid  peace 
and  shimmering  lights  and  quiet  fragrance  he  made  a 
covenant  with  his  heart. 

He  prayed : 

—  He  once  had  meant  to  come  on  earth  in  heavenly 
glory  but  we  sinned:  and  then  He  could  not  safely  visit 

[159] 


us  but  with  a  shrouded  majesty  and  a  hedimmed  radi- 
ance for  He  was  God,  So  He  came  Himself  in  weakness 
not  in  power  and  He  sent  thee,  a  creature  in  His  stead, 
with  a  creature's  comeliness  and  lustre  suited  to  our 
state.  And  now  thy  very  face  and  form,  dear  mother, 
speak  to  us  of  the  Eternal;  not  like  earthly  beauty,  dan- 
gerous to  look  upon,  but  like  the  morning  star  which  is 
thy  emblem,  bright  and  musical,  breathing  purity,  tell- 
ing of  heaven  and  infusing  peace,  0  harbinger  of  day! 
O  light  of  the  pilgrim!  Lead  us  still  as  thou  hast  led. 
In  the  dark  night,  across  the  bleak  wilderness  guide  us 
on  to  our  Lord  Jesus,  guide  us  home, — 

His  eyes  were  dimmed  with  tears  and,  looking  humbly 
up  to  heaven,  he  wept  for  the  innocence  he  had  lost. 

When  evening  had  fallen  he  left  the  house  and  the 
first  touch  of  the  damp  dark  air  and  the  noise  of  the 
door  as  it  closed  behind  him  made  ache  again  his  con- 
science, lulled  by  prayer  and  tears.  Confess !  Confess ! 
It  was  not  enough  to  lull  the  conscience  with  a  tear  and 
a  prayer.  He  had  to  kneel  before  the  minister  of  the 
Holy  Ghost  and  tell  over  his  hidden  sins  truly  and 
repentantly.  Before  he  heard  again  the  footboard  of 
the  housedoor  trail  over  the  threshold  as  it  opened  to 
let  him  in,  before  he  saw  again  the  table  in  the  kitchen 
set  for  supper  he  would  have  knelt  and  confessed.  It 
was  quite  simple. 

The  ache  of  conscience  ceased  and  he  walked  onward 
swiftly  through  the  dark  streets.  There  were  so  many 
flagstones  on  the  footpath  of  that  street  and  so  many 
streets  in  that  city  and  so  many  cities  in  the  world. 
Yet  eternity  had  no  end.  He  was  in  mortal  sin.  Even 
once  was  a  mortal  sin.    It  could  happen  in  an  instant. 

[160] 


But  how  so  quickly  ?  By  seeing  or  by  thinking  of  seeing. 
The  eyes  see  the  thing,  without  having  wished  first  to 
see.  Then  in  an  instant  it  happens.  But  does  that 
part  of  the  body  understand  or  what?  The  serpent, 
the  most  subtle  beast  of  the  field.  It  must  understand 
when  it  desires  in  one  instant  and  then  prolongs  its  own 
desire  instant  after  instant,  sinfully.  It  feels  and  under- 
stands and  desires.  What  a  horrible  thing !  Who  made 
it  to  be  like  that,  a  bestial  part  of  the  body  able  to 
understand  bestially  and  desire  bestially?  Was  that 
then  he  or  an  inhuman  thing  moved  by  a  lower  soul? 
His  soul  sickened  at  the  thought  of  a  torpid  snaky  life 
feeding  itself  out  of  the  tender  marrow  of  his  life  and 
fattening  upon  the  slime  of  lust.  O  why  was  that  so? 
O  why? 

He  cowered  in  the  shadow  of  the  thought  abasing 
himself  in  the  awe  of  God  Who  had  made  all  things 
and  all  men.  Madness.  Who  could  think  such  a 
thought?  And,  cowering  in  darkness  and  abject,  he 
prayed  mutely  to  his  angel  guardian  to  drive  away  with 
his  sword  the  demon  that  was  whispering  to  his  brain. 

The  whisper  ceased  and  he  knew  then  clearly  that  his 
own  soul  had  sinned  in  thought  and  word  and  deed 
wilfully  through  his  own  body.  Confess!  He  had  to 
confess  every  sin.  How  could  he  utter  in  words  to  the 
priest  what  he  had  done?  Must,  must.  Or  how  could 
he  explain  without  dying  of  shame?  Or  how  could  he 
have  done  such  things  without  shame?  A  madman! 
Confess!  0  he  would  indeed  to  be  free  and  sin- 
less again!  Perhaps  the  priest  would  know.  0  dear 
God! 

He  walked  on  and  on  through  ill-lit  streets,  fearing 
to  stand  still  for  a  moment  lest  it  might  seem  that  he 

[161] 


held  back  from  what  awaited  him,  fearing  to  arrive  at 
that  towards  which  he  still  turned  with  longing.  How 
beautiful  must  be  a  soul  in  the  state  of  grace  when  God 
looked  upon  it  with  love ! 

Frowsy  girls  sat  along  the  curbstones  before  their 
baskets.  Their  dank  hair  hung  trailed  over  their 
brows.  They  were  not  beautiful  to  see  as  they  crouched 
in  the  mire.  But  their  souls  were  seen  by  God ;  and  if 
their  souls  were  in  a  state  of  grace  they  were  radiant  to 
see :  and  God  loved  them,  seeing  them. 

A  wasting  breath  of  humiliation  blew  bleakly  over 
his  soul  to  think  of  how  he  had  fallen,  to  feel  that  those 
souls  were  dearer  to  God  than  his.  The  wind  blew  over 
him  and  passed  on  to  the  myriads  and  myriads  of  other 
souls,  on  whom  God's  favour  shone  now  more  and  now 
less,  stars  now  brighter  and  now  dimmer,  sustained  and 
failing.  And  the  glimmering  souls  passed  away,  sus- 
tained and  failing,  merged  in  a  moving  breath.  One 
soul  was  lost;  a  tiny  soul:  his.  It  flickered  once  and 
went  out,  forgotten,  lost.  The  end:  black  cold  void 
waste. 

Consciousness  of  place  came  ebbing  back  to  him 
slowly  over  a  vast  tract  of  time  unlit,  unfelt,  unlived. 
The  squalid  scene  composed  itself  around  him;  the 
common  accents,  the  burning  gasjets  in  the  shops, 
odours  of  fish  and  spirits  and  wet  sawdust,  moving  men 
and  women.  An  old  woman  was  about  to  cross  the 
street,  an  oilcan  in  her  hand.  He  bent  down  and  asked 
her  was  there  a  chapel  near. 

—  A  chapel,  sir?    Yes,  sir.    Church  Street  chapel. — 

—  Church?  — 

She  shifted  the  can  to  her  other  hand  and  directed 
him:  and,  as  she  held  out  her  reeking  withered  right 

[162] 


hand  under  its  fringe  of  shawl,  he  bent  lower  towards 
her,  saddened  and  soothed  by  her  voice. 

—  Thank  you. — 

—  You  are  quite  welcome,  sir. — 

The  candles  on  the  high  altar  had  been  extinguished 
but  the  fragrance  of  incense  still  floated  down  the  dim 
nave.  Bearded  workmen  with  pious  faces  were  guiding 
a  canopy  out  through  a  side  door,  the  sacristan  aiding 
them  with  quiet  gestures  and  words.  A  few  of  the 
faithful  still  lingered  praying  before  one  of  the  side- 
altars  or  kneeling  in  the  benches  near  the  confessionals. 
He  approached  timidly  and  knelt  at  the  last  bench  in 
the  body,  thankful  for  the  peace  and  silence  and  fragrant 
shadow  of  the  church.  The  board  on  which  he  knelt 
was  narrow  and  worn  and  those  who  knelt  near  him 
were  humble  followers  of  Jesus.  Jesus  too  had  been 
born  in  poverty  and  had  worked  in  the  shop  of  a  car- 
penter, cutting  boards  and  planing  them,  and  had  first 
spoken  of  the  kingdom  of  God  to  poor  fishermen,  teach- 
ing all  men  to  be  meek  and  humble  of  heart. 

He  bowed  his  head  upon  his  hands,  bidding  his  heart 
be  meek  and  humble  that  he  might  be  like  those  who 
knelt  beside  him  and  his  prayer  as  acceptable  as  theirs. 
He  prayed  beside  them  but  it  was  hard.  His  soul  was 
foul  with  sin  and  he  dared  not  ask  forgiveness  with  the 
simple  trust  of  those  whom  Jesus,  in  the  mysterious 
ways  of  God,  had  called  first  to  His  side,  the  carpenters, 
the  fishermen,  poor  and  simple  people  following  a  lowly 
trade,  handling  and  shaping  the  wood  of  trees,  mending 
their  nets  with  patience. 

A  tall  figure  came  down  the  aisle  and  the  penitents 
stirred:  and,  at  the  last  moment  glancing  up  swiftly, 
he  saw  a  long  grey  beard  and  the  brown  habit  of  a 

[163J 


capuchin.  The  priest  entered  the  box  and  was  hidden. 
Two  penitents  rose  and  entered  the  confessional  at 
either  side.  The  wooden  slide  was  drawn  back  and  the 
faint  murmur  of  a  voice  troubled  the  silence. 

His  blood  began  to  murmur  in  his  veins,  murmuring 
like  a  sinful  city  summoned  from  its  sleep  to  bear  its 
doom.  Little  flakes  of  fire  fell  and  powdery  ashes  fell 
softly,  alighting  on  the  houses  of  men.  They  stirred, 
waking  from  sleep,  troubled  by  the  heated  air. 

The  slide  was  shot  back.  The  penitent  emerged  from 
the  side  of  the  box.  The  farther  side  was  drawn.  A 
woman  entered  quietly  and  deftly  where  the  first  peni- 
tent had  knelt.     The  faint  murmur  began  again. 

He  could  still  leave  the  chapel.  He  could  stand  up, 
put  one  foot  before  the  other  and  walk  out  softly  and 
then  run,  run,  run  swiftly  through  the  dark  streets. 
He  could  still  escape  from  the  shame.  Had  it  been  any 
terrible  crime  but  that  one  sin!  Had  it  been  murder! 
Little  fiery  flakes  fell  and  touched  him  at  all  points, 
shameful  thoughts,  shameful  words,  shameful  acts. 
Shame  covered  him  wholly  like  fine  glowing  ashes  fall- 
ing continually.  To  say  it  in  words !  His  soul,  stifling 
and  helpless,  would  cease  to  be. 

The  slide  was  shot  back.  A  penitent  emerged  from 
the  farther  side  of  the  box.  The  near  slide  was  drawn. 
A  penitent  entered  where  the  other  penitent  had  come 
out.  A  soft  whispering  noise  floated  in  vaporous  cloud- 
lets out  of  the  box.  It  was  the  woman :  soft  whispering 
cloudlets,  soft  whispering  vapour,  whispering  and  vanish- 
ing. 

He  beat  his  breast  with  his  fist  humbly,  secretly  under 
cover  of  the  wooden  armrest.  He  would  be  at  one  with 
others  and  with  God.    He  would  love  his  neighbour. 

[164] 


He  would  love  God  Who  had  made  and  loved  him.  He 
would  kneel  and  pray  with  others  and  be  happy.  God 
would  look  down  on  him  and  on  them  and  would  love 
them  all. 

It  was  easy  to  be  good.  God's  yoke  was  sweet  and 
light.  It  was  better  never  to  have  sinned,  to  have  re- 
mained always  a  child,  for  God  loved  little  children  and 
suffered  them  to  come  to  Him.  It  was  a  terrible  and 
a  sad  thing  to  sin.  But  God  was  merciful  to  poor 
sinners  who  were  truly  sorry.  How  true  that  was! 
That  was  indeed  goodness. 

The  slide  was  shot  to  suddenly.  The  penitent  came 
out.  He  was  next.  He  stood  up  in  terror  and  walked 
blindly  into  the  box. 

At  last  it  had  come.  He  knelt  in  the  silent  gloom 
and  raised  his  eyes  to  the  white  crucifix  suspended  above 
him.  God  could  see  that  he  was  sorry.  He  would  tell 
all  his  sins.  His  confession  would  be  long,  long. 
Everybody  in  the  chapel  would  know  then  what  a  sinner 
he  had  been.  Let  them  know.  It  was  true.  But  God 
had  promised  to  forgive  him  if  he  was  sorry.  He  was 
sorry.  He  clasped  his  hands  and  raised  them  towards 
the  white  form,  praying  with  his  darkened  eyes,  praying 
with  all  his  trembling  body,  swaying  his  head  to  and 
fro  like  a  lost  creature,  praying  with  whimpering  lips. 

—  Sorry !     Sorry !     0  sorry !  — 

The  slide  clicked  back  and  his  heart  bounded  in  his 
breast.  The  face  of  an  old  priest  was  at  the  grating, 
averted  from  him,  leaning  upon  a  hand.  He  made  the 
sign  of  the  cross  and  prayed  of  the  priest  to  bless  him 
for  he  had  sinned.  Then,  bowing  his  head,  he  repeated 
the  Confiteor  in  fright.  At  the  words  my  most  grievous 
fault  he  ceased,  breathless. 

[165] 


—  How  long  is  it  since  your  last  confession,  my 
child?  — 

—  A  long  time,  father. — 

—  A  month,  my  child  ?  — 

—  Longer,  father. — 

—  Three  months,  my  child?  — 

—  Longer,  father. — 

—  Six  months  ?  — 

—  Eight  months,  father. — 

He  had  begun.     The  priest  asked : 

—  And  what  do  you  remember  since  that  time  ?  — 
He  began  to  confess  his  sins :  masses  missed,  prayers 

not  said,  lies. 

—  Anything  else,  my  child  ?  — 

Sins  of  anger,  envy  of  others,  gluttony,  vanity,  dis- 
obedience. 

—  Anything  else,  my  child?  — 
There  was  no  help.    He  murmured: 

—  I  .  .  .  committed  sins  of  impurity,  father. — 
The  priest  did  not  turn  his  head. 

—  "With  yourself,  my  child  ?  — 

—  And  .  .  .  with  others. — 

—  With  women,  my  child  ?  — 

—  Yes,  father. — 

—  Were  they  married  women,  my  child  ?  — 

He  did  not  know.  His  sins  trickled  from  his  lips,  one 
by  one,  trickled  in  shameful  drops  from  his  soul  fester- 
ing and  oozing  like  a  sore,  a  squalid  stream  of  vice. 
The  last  sins  oozed  forth,  sluggish,  filthy.  There  was  no 
more  to  tell.    He  bowed  his  head,  overcome. 

The  priest  was  silent.     Then  he  asked : 

—  How  old  are  you,  my  child?  — 

—  Sixteen,  father. — 

[166] 


The  priest  passed  his  hand  several  times  over  his  face. 
Then,  resting  his  forehead  against  his  hand,  he  leaned 
towards  the  grating  and,  with  eyes  still  averted,  spoke 
slowly.    His  voice  was  weary  and  old. 

—  You  are  very  young,  my  child  —  he  said, —  and  let 
me  implore  of  you  to  give  up  that  sin.  It  is  a  terrible 
sin.  It  kills  the  body  and  it  kills  the  soul.  It  is  the 
cause  of  many  crimes  and  misfortunes.  Give  it  up,  my 
child,  for  God's  sake.  It  is  dishonourable  and  unmanly. 
You  cannot  know  where  that  wretched  habit  will  lead 
you  or  where  it  will  come  against  you.  As  long  as  you 
commit  that  sin,  my  poor  child,  you  will  never  be  worth 
one  farthing  to  God.  Pray  to  our  mother  Mary  to  help 
you.  She  will  help  you,  my  child.  Pray  to  Our  Blessed 
Lady  when  that  sin  comes  into  your  mind.  I  am  sure 
you  will  do  that,  will  you  not?  You  repent  of  all  those 
sins.  I  am  sure  you  do.  And  you  will  promise  God 
now  that  by  His  holy  grace  you  will  never  offend  Him 
any  more  by  that  wicked  sin.  You  will  make  that 
solemn  promise  to  God,  will  you  not  ?  — 

—  Yes,  father. — 

The  old  and  weary  voice  fell  like  sweet  rain  upon  his 
quaking  parching  heart.     How  sweet  and  sad ! 

—  Do  so,  my  poor  child.  The  devil  has  led  you  astray. 
Drive  him  back  to  hell  when  he  tempts  you  to  dishonour 
your  body  in  that  way  —  the  foul  spirit  who  hates  Our 
Lord.  Promise  God  now  that  you  will  give  up  that  sin, 
that  wretched  wretched  sin. — 

Blinded  by  his  tears  and  by  the  light  of  God's  merci- 
fulness he  bent  his  head  and  heard  the  grave  words  of 
absolution  spoken  and  saw  the  priest's  hand  raised  above 
him  in  token  of  forgiveness. 

—  God  bless  you,  my  child.    Pray  for  me. — 

[167] 


He  knelt  to  say  his  penance,  praying  in  a  corner  of 
the  dark  nave :  and  his  prayers  ascended  to  heaven  from 
his  purified  heart  like  perfume  streaming  upwards  from 
a  heart  of  white  rose. 

The  muddy  streets  were  gay.  He  strode  homeward, 
conscious  of  an  invisible  grace  pervading  and  making 
light  his  limbs.  In  spite  of  all  he  had  done  it.  He  had 
confessed  and  God  had  pardoned  him.  His  soul  was 
made  fair  and  holy  once  more,  holy  and  happy. 

It  would  be  beautiful  to  die  if  God  so  willed.  It  was 
beautiful  to  live  in  grace  a  life  of  peace  and  virtue  and 
forbearance  with  others. 

He  sat  by  the  fire  in  the  kitchen,  not  daring  to  speak 
for  happiness.  Till  that  moment  he  had  not  known 
how  beautiful  and  peaceful  life  could  be.  The  green 
square  of  paper  pinned  round  the  lamp  cast  down  a 
tender  shade.  On  the  dresser  was  a  plate  of  sausages 
and  white  pudding  and  on  the  shelf  there  were  eggs. 
They  would  be  for  the  breakfast  in  the  morning  after 
the  communion  in  the  college  chapel.  White  pudding 
and  eggs  and  sausages  and  cups  of  tea.  How  simple  and 
beautiful  was  life  after  all !    And  life  lay  all  before  him. 

In  a  dream  he  fell  asleep.  In  a  dream  he  rose  and 
saw  that  it  was  morning.  In  a  waking  dream  he  went 
through  the  quiet  morning  towards  the  college. 

The  boys  were  all  there,  kneeling  in  their  places.  He 
knelt  among  them,  happy  and  shy.  The  altar  was 
heaped  with  fragrant  masses  of  white  flowers:  and  in 
the  morning  light  the  pale  flames  of  the  candles  among 
the  white  flowers  were  clear  and  silent  as  his  own  soul. 

He  knelt  before  the  altar  with  his  classmates,  holding 
the  altar  cloth  with  them  over  a  living  rail  of  hands. 
His  hands  were  trembling  and  his  soul  trembled  as  he 

[168] 


heard  the  priest  pass  with  the  ciborium  from  communi- 
cant to  communicant. 

—  Corpus  Domini  nostri. — 

Could  it  be  ?  He  knelt  there  sinless  and  timid :  and  he 
would  hold  upon  his  tongue  the  host  and  God  would 
enter  his  purified  body. 

—  In  vitam  eternam.    Amen. — 

Another  life !  A  life  of  grace  and  virtue  and  happi- 
ness !  It  was  true.  It  was  not  a  dream  from  which  he 
would  wake.     The  past  was  past. 

—  Corpus  Domini  nostri, — 
The  ciborium  had  come  to  him. 


1169] 


CHAPTER  IV 

Sunday  was  dedicated  to  the  mystery  of  the  Holy 
Trinity,  Monday  to  the  Holy  Ghost,  Tuesday  to  the 
Guardian  Angels,  Wednesday  to  Saint  Joseph,  Thursday 
to  the  Most  Blessed  Sacrament  of  the  Altar,  Friday  to 
the  Suffering  Jesus,  Saturday  to  the  Blessed  Virgin 
Mary. 

Every  morning  he  hallowed  himself  anew  in  the 
presence  of  some  holy  image  or  mystery.  His  day  began 
with  an  heroic  offering  of  its  every  moment  of  thought 
or  action  for  the  intentions  of  the  sovereign  pontiff  and 
with  an  early  mass.  The  raw  morning  air  whetted  his 
resolute  piety;  and  often  as  he  knelt  among  the  few 
worshippers  at  the  side  altar,  following  with  his  inter- 
leaved prayer  book  the  murmur  of  the  priest,  he  glanced 
up  for  an  instant  towards  the  vested  figure  standing  in 
the  gloom  between  the  two  candles,  which  were  the  old 
and  the  new  testaments,  and  imagined  that  he  was  kneel- 
ing at  mass  in  the  catacombs. 

His  daily  life  was  laid  out  in  devotional  areas.  By 
means  of  ejaculations  and  prayers  he  stored  up  ungrudg- 
ingly for  the  souls  in  purgatory  centuries  of  days  and 
quarantines  and  years ;  yet  the  spiritual  triumph  which 
he  felt  in  achieving  with  ease  so  many  fabulous  ages  of 
canonical  penances  did  not  wholly  reward  his  zeal  of 
prayer  since  he  could  never  know  how  much  temporal 

[170] 


punishment  he  had  remitted  by  way  of  suffrage  for  the 
agonising  souls:  and,  fearful  lest  in  the  midst  of  the 
purgatorial  fire,  which  differed  from  the  infernal  only  in 
that  it  was  not  everlasting,  his  penance  might  avail  no 
more  than  a  drop  of  moisture  he  drove  his  soul  daily 
through  an  increasing  circle  of  works  of  supererogation. 

Every  part  of  his  day,  divided  by  what  he  regarded 
now  as  the  duties  of  his  station  in  life,  circled  about  its 
own  centre  of  spiritual  energy.  His  life  seemed  to  have 
drawn  near  to  eternity;  every  thought,  word  and  deed, 
every  instance  of  consciousness  could  be  made  to  revibrate 
radiantly  in  heaven :  and  at  times  his  sense  of  such  im- 
mediate repercussion  was  so  lively  that  he  seemed  to  feel 
his  soul  in  devotion  pressing  like  fingers  the  keyboard 
of  a  great  cash  register  and  to  see  the  amount  of  his 
purchase  start  forth  immediately  in  heaven,  not  as  a 
number  but  as  a  frail  column  of  incense  or  as  a  slender 
flower. 

The  rosaries,  too,  which  he  said  constantly  —  for  he 
carried  his  beads  loose  in  his  trousers'  pockets  that  he 
might  tell  them  as  he  walked  the  streets  —  transformed 
themselves  into  coronals  of  flowers  of  such  vague  un- 
earthly texture  that  they  seemed  to  him  as  hueless  and 
odourless  as  they  were  nameless.  He  offered  up  each  of 
his  three  daily  chaplets  that  his  soul  might  grow  strong 
in  each  of  the  three  theological  virtues,  in  faith  in  the 
Father  Who  had  created  him,  in  hope  in  the  Son  Who 
had  redeemed  him,  and  in  love  of  the  Holy  Ghost  Who 
had  sanctified  him;  and  this  thrice  triple  prayer  he 
offered  to  the  Three  Persons  through  Mary  in  the  name 
of  her  joyful  and  sorrowful  and  glorious  mysteries. 

On  each  of  the  seven  days  of  the  week  he  further 
prayed  that  one  of  the  seven  gifts  of  the  Holy  Ghost 

]171] 


might  descend  upon  his  soul  and  drive  out  of  it  day  by 
day  the  seven  deadly  sins  which  had  defiled  it  in  the  past ; 
and  he  prayed  for  each  gift  on  its  appointed  day,  con- 
fident that  it  would  descend  upon  him,  though  it  seemed 
strange  to  him  at  times  that  wisdom  and  understanding 
and  knowledge  were  so  distinct  in  their  nature  that  each 
should  be  prayed  for  apart  from  the  others.  Yet  he 
believed  that  at  some  future  stage  of  his  spiritual  pro- 
gress this  difficulty  would  be  removed  when  his  sinful 
soul  had  been  raised  up  from  its  weakness  and  enlight- 
ened by  the  Third  Person  of  the  Most  Blessed  Trinity. 
He  believed  this  all  the  more,  and  with  trepidation, 
because  of  the  divine  gloom  and  silence  wherein  dwelt 
the  unseen  Paraclete,  Whose  symbols  were  a  dove  and 
a  mighty  wind,  to  sin  against  Whom  was  a  sin  beyond 
forgiveness,  the  eternal,  mysterious  secret  Being  to 
Whom,  as  God,  the  priests  offered  up  mass  once  a  year, 
orbed  in  the  scarlet  of  the  tongues  of  fire. 

The  imagery  through  which  the  nature  and  kinship  of 
the  Three  Persons  of  the  Trinity  were  darkly  shadowed 
forth  in  the  books  of  devotion  which  he  read  —  the  Father 
contemplating  from  all  eternity  as  in  a  mirror  His  Divine 
Perfections  and  thereby  begetting  eternally  the  Eternal 
Son  and  the  Holy  Spirit  proceeding  out  of  Father  and 
Son  from  all  eternity  —  were  easier  of  acceptance  by  his 
mind  by  reason  of  their  august  incomprehensibility  than 
was  the  simple  fact  that  God  had  loved  his  soul  from 
all  eternity,  for  ages  before  he  had  been  born  into  the 
world,  for  ages  before  the  world  itself  had  existed. 

He  had  heard  the  names  of  the  passions  of  love  and 
hate  pronounced  solemnly  on  the  stage  and  in  the  pulpit, 
had  found  them  set  forth  solemnly  in  books,  and  had 
wondered  why  his  soul  was  unable  to  harbour  them  for 

[172] 


any  time  or  to  force  his  lips  to  utter  their  names  with 
conviction.  A  brief  anger  had  often  invested  him,  but 
he  had  never  been  able  to  make  it  an  abiding  passion 
and  had  always  felt  himself  passing  out  of  it  as  if  his 
very  body  were  being  divested  with  ease  of  some  outer 
skin  or  peel.  He  had  felt  a  subtle,  dark  and  murmurous 
presence  penetrate  his  being  and  fire  him  with  a  brief 
iniquitous  lust:  it,  too,  had  slipped  beyond  his  grasp 
leaving  his  mind  lucid  and  indifferent.  This,  it  seemed, 
was  the  only  love  and  that  the  only  hate  his  soul  would 
harbour. 

But  he  could  no  longer  disbelieve  in  the  reality  of  love 
since  God  himself  had  loved  his  individual  soul  with 
divine  love  from  all  eternity.  Gradually,  as  his  soul  was 
enriched  with  spiritual  knowledge,  he  saw  the  whole 
world  forming  one  vast  symmetrical  expression  of  God's 
power  and  love.  Life  became  a  divine  gift  for  every 
moment  and  sensation  of  which,  were  it  even  the  sight 
of  a  single  leaf  hanging  on  the  twig  of  a  tree,  his  soul 
should  praise  and  thank  the  giver.  The  world  for  all 
its  solid  substance  and  complexity  no  longer  existed  for 
his  soul  save  as  a  theorem  of  divine  power  and  love  and 
universality.  So  entire  and  unquestionable  was  this 
sense  of  the  divine  meaning  in  all  nature  granted  to  his 
soul  that  he  could  scarcely  understand  why  it  was  in  any 
way  necessary  that  he  should  continue  to  live.  Yet  that 
was  part  of  the  divine  purpose  and  he  dared  not  question 
its  use,  he  above  all  others  who  had  sinned  so  deeply 
and  so  foully  against  the  divine  purpose.  Meek  and 
abased  by  this  consciousness  of  the  one  eternal  omni- 
present perfect  reality  his  soul  took  up  again  her  burden 
of  pieties,  masses  and  prayers  and  sacraments  and  morti- 
fications, and  only  then  for  the  first  time  since  he  had 

[173] 


brooded  on  the  great  mystery  of  love  did  he  feel  within 
him  a  warm  movement  like  that  of  some  newly  born  life 
or  virtue  of  the  soul  itself.  The  attitude  of  rapture  in 
sacred  art,  the  raised  and  parted  hands,  the  parted  lips 
and  eyes  as  of  one  about  to  swoon,  became  for  him  an 
image  of  the  soul  in  prayer,  humiliated  and  faint  before 
her  Creator. 

But  he  had  been  forewarned  of  the  dangers  of  spiritual 
exaltation  and  did  not  allow  himself  to  desist  from  even 
the  least  or  lowliest  devotion,  striving  also  by  constant 
mortification  to  undo  the  sinful  past  rather  than  to 
achieve  a  saintliness  fraught  with  peril.  Each  of  his 
senses  was  brought  under  a  rigorous  discipline.  In 
order  to  mortify  the  sense  of  sight  he  made  it  his  rule  to 
walk  in  the  street  with  downcast  eyes,  glancing  neither 
to  right  nor  left  and  never  behind  him.  His  eyes 
shunned  every  encounter  with  the  eyes  of  women.  From 
time  to  time  also  he  balked  them  by  a  sudden  effort  of 
the  will,  as  by  lifting  them  suddenly  in  the  middle  of 
an  unfinished  sentence  and  closing  the  book.  To  mortify 
his  hearing  he  exerted  no  control  over  his  voice  which 
was  then  breaking,  neither  sang  nor  whistled  and  made 
no  attempt  to  flee  from  noise  which  caused  him  painful 
nervous  irritation  such  as  the  sharpening  of  knives  on 
the  knif  eboard,  the  gathering  of  cinders  on  the  fireshovel 
and  the  twigging  of  the  carpet.  To  mortify  his  smell 
was  more  difficult  as  he  found  in  himself  no  instinctive 
repugnance  to  bad  odours,  whether  they  were  the  odours 
of  the  outdoor  world  such  as  those  of  dung  or  tar  or 
the  odours  of  his  own  person  among  which  he  had  made 
many  curious  comparisons  and  experiments.  He  found 
in  the  end  that  the  only  odour  against  which  his  sense 
of  smell  revolted  was  a  certain  stale  fishy  stink  like  that 

[174] 


of  longstanding  urine :  and  whenever  it  was  possible  he 
subjected  himself  to  this  unpleasant  odour.  To  mortify 
the  taste  he  practised  strict  habits  at  table,  observed  to 
the  letter  all  the  fasts  of  the  church  and  sought  by  dis- 
traction to  divert  his  mind  from  the  savours  of  different 
foods.  But  it  was  to  the  mortification  of  touch  that 
he  brought  the  most  assiduous  ingenuity  of  inventiveness. 
He  never  consciously  changed  his  position  in  bed,  sat 
in  the  most  uncomfortable  positions,  suffered  patiently 
every  itch  and  pain,  kept  away  from  the  fire,  remained 
on  his  knees  all  through  the  mass  except  at  the  gospels, 
left  parts  of  his  neck  and  face  undried  so  that  air  might 
sting  them  and,  whenever  he  was  not  saying  his  beads, 
carried  his  arms  stiffly  stt  his  sides  like  a  runner  and 
never  in  his  pockets  or  clasped  behind  hiuL 

He  had  no  temptations  to  sin  mortally.  It  surprised 
him,  however,  to  find  that  at  the  end  of  his  course  of 
intricate  piety  and  selfrestraint  he  was  so  easily  at  the 
mercy  of  childish  and  unworthy  imperfections.  His 
prayers  and  fasts  availed  him  little  for  the  suppression 
of  anger  at  hearing  his  mother  sneeze  or  at  being  dis- 
turbed in  his  devotions.  It  needed  an  immense  effort  of 
his  will  to  master  the  impulse  which  urged  him  to  give 
outlet  to  such  irritation.  Images  of  the  outbursts  of 
trivial  anger  which  he  had  often  noted  among  his 
masters,  their  twitching  mouths,  closeshut  lips  and 
flushed  cheeks,  recurred  to  his  memory,  discouraging 
him,  for  all  his  practice  of  humility,  by  the  comparison. 
To  merge  his  life  in  the  common  tide  of  other  lives  was 
harder  for  him  than  any  fasting  or  prayer,  and  it  was 
his  constant  failure  to  do  this  to  his  own  satisfaction 
which  caused  in  his  soul  at  last  a  sensation  of  spiritual 
dryness  together  with  a  growth  of  doubts  and  scruples. 

[175] 


His  soul  traversed  a  period  of  desolation  in  which  the 
sacraments  themselves  seemed  to  have  turned  into  dried 
up  sources.  His  confession  became  a  channel  for  the 
escape  of  scrupulous  and  unrepented  imperfections.  His 
actual  reception  of  the  eucharist  did  not  bring  him  the 
same  dissolving  moments  of  virginal  self-surrender  as 
did  those  spiritual  communions  made  by  him  sometimes 
at  the  close  of  some  visit  to  the  Blessed  Sacrament.  The 
book  which  he  used  for  these  visits  was  an  old  neglected 
book  written  by  Saint  Alphonsus  Liguori,  with  fading 
characters  and  sere  foxpapered  leaves.  A  faded  world 
of  fervent  love  and  virginal  responses  seemed  to  be 
evoked  for  his  soul  by  the  reading  of  its  pages  in  which 
the  imagery  of  the  canticles  was  interwoven  with  the 
communicant's  prayers.  An  inaudible  voice  seemed  to 
caress  the  soul,  telling  her  names  and  glories,  bidding  her 
arise  as  for  espousal  and  come  away,  bidding  her  look 
forth,  a*  spouse,  from  Amana  and  from  the  mountains  of 
the  leopards;  and  the  soul  seemed  to  answer  with  the 
same  inaudible  voice,  surrendering  herself :  Inter  ubera 
mea  commorabitur. 

This  idea  of  surrender  had  a  perilous  attraction  for 
his  mind  now  that  he  felt  his  soul  beset  once  again  by 
the  insistent  voices  of  the  flesh  which  began  to  murmur 
to  him  again  during  his  prayers  and  meditations.  It 
gave  him  an  intense  sense  of  power  to  know  that  he 
could  by  a  single  act  of  consent,  in  a  moment  of  thought, 
undo  all  that  he  had  done.  He  seemed  to  feel  a  flood 
slowly  advancing  towards  his  naked  feet  and  to  be  wait- 
ing for  the  first  faint  timid  noiseless  wavelet  to  touch 
his  fevered  skin.  Then,  almost  at  the  instant  of  that 
touch,  almost  at  the  verge  of  sinful  consent,  he  found 
himself  standing  far  away  from  the  flood  upon  a  dry 

[176] 


shore,  saved  by  a  sudden  act  of  the  will  or  a  sudden 
ejaculation:  and,  seeing  the  silver  line  of  the  floor  far 
away  and  beginning  again  its  slow  advance  towards  his 
feet,  a  new  thrill  of  power  and  satisfaction  shook  his 
soul  to  know  that  he  had  not  yielded  nor  undone  all. 

When  he  had  eluded  the  flood  of  temptation  many 
times  in  this  way  he  grew  troubled  and  wondered  whether 
the  grace  which  he  had  refused  to  lose  was  not  being 
filched  from  him  little  by  little.  The  clear  certitude  of 
his  own  immunity  grew  dim  and  to  it  succeeded  a  vague 
fear  that  his  soul  had  really  fallen  unawares.  It  was 
with  difliculty  that  he  won  back  his  old  consciousness  of 
his  state  of  grace  by  telling  himself  that  he  had  prayed 
to  God  at  every  temptation  and  that  the  grace  which  he 
had  prayed  for  must  have  been  given  to  him  inasmuch 
as  God  was  obliged  to  give  it.  The  very  frequency  and 
violence  of  temptations  showed  him  at  last  the  truth  of 
what  he  had  heard  about  the  trials  of  the  saints.  Fre- 
quent and  violent  temptations  were  a  proof  that  the 
citadel  of  the  soul  had  not  fallen  and  that  the  devil 
raged  to  make  it  fall. 

Often  when  he  had  confessed  his  doubts  and  scruples, 
some  momentary  inattention  at  prayer,  a  movement  of 
trivial  anger  in  his  soul  or  a  subtle  wilfulness  in  speech 
or  act,  he  was  bidden  by  his  confessor  to  name  some  sin 
of  his  past  life  before  absolution  was  given  him.  He 
named  it  with  humility  and  shame  and  repented  of  it 
once  more.  It  humiliated  and  shamed  him  to  think  that 
he  would  never  be  freed  from  it  wholly,  however  holily 
he  might  live  or  whatever  virtues  or  perfections  he  might 
attain.  A  restless  feeling  of  guilt  would  always  be 
present  with  him:  he  would  confess  and  repent  and  be 
absolved,   confess   and  repent   again  and  be   absolved 

[177] 


again,  fruitlessly.  Perhaps  that  first  hasty  confession 
wrung  from  him  by  the  fear  of  hell  had  not  been  good  ? 
Perhaps,  concerned  only  for  his  imminent  doom,  he  had 
not  had  sincere  sorrow  for  his  sin  ?  But  the  surest  sign 
that  his  confession  had  been  good  and  that  he  had  had 
sincere  sorrow  for  his  sin  was,  he  knew,  the  amendment 
of  his  life. 

—  I  have  amended  my  life,  have  I  not?  he  asked  him- 
self.— 

#        #        #        # 

The  director  stood  in  the  embrasure  of  the  window, 
his  back  to  the  light,  leaning  an  elbow  on  the  brown 
crossblind,  and,  as  he  spoke  and  smiled,  slowly  dangling 
and  looping  the  cord  of  the  other  blind,  Stephen  stood 
before  him,  following  for  a  moment  with  his  eyes  the 
waning  of  the  long  summer  daylight  above  the  roofs  or 
the  slow  deft  movements  of  the  priestly  fingers.  The 
priest's  face  was  in  total  shadow,  but  the  waning  day- 
light from  behind  him  touched  the  deeply  grooved 
temples  and  the  curves  of  the  skull.  Stephen  followed 
also  with  his  ears  the  accents  and  intervals  of  the  priest's 
voice  as  he  spoke  gravely  and  cordially  of  indifferent 
themes,  the  vacation  which  had  just  ended,  the  colleges 
of  the  order  abroad,  the  transference  of  masters.  The 
grave  and  cordial  voice  went  on  easily  with  its  tale,  and 
in  the  pauses  Stephen  felt  bound  to  set  it  on  again  with 
respectful  questions.  He  knew  that  the  tale  was  a  pre- 
lude and  his  mind  waited  for  the  sequel.  Ever  since  the 
message  of  summons  had  come  for  him  from  the  director 
his  mind  had  struggled  to  find  the  meaning  of  the  mes- 
sage ;  and  during  the  long  restless  time  he  had  sat  in  the 
college  parlour  waiting  for  the  director  to  come  in  his 
eyes  had  wandered  from  one  sober  picture  to  another 

[178] 


around  the  walls  and  his  mind  wandered  from  one  guess 
to  another  until  the  meaning  of  the  summons  had  almost 
become  clear.  Then,  just  as  he  was  wishing  that  some 
unforeseen  cause  might  preveiit  the  director  from  com- 
ing, he  had  heard  the  handle  of  the  door  turning  and  the 
swish  of  a  soutane. 

The  director  had  begun  to  speak  of  the  Dominican  and 
Franciscan  orders  and  of  the  friendship  between  Saint 
Thomas  and  Saint  Bonaventure.  The  Capuchin  dress, 
he  thought,  was  rather  too  .... 

Stephen's  face  gave  back  the  priest's  indulgent  smile 
and,  not  being  anxious  to  give  an  opinion,  he  made  a 
slight  dubitative  movement  with  his  lips. 

—  I  believe, —  continued  the  director, —  that  there  is 
some  talk  now  among  the  Capuchins  themselves  of  doing 
away  with  it  and  following  the  example  of  the  other 
Franciscans. — 

—  I  suppose  they  would  retain  it  in  the  cloisters  ?  — 
said  Stephen. 

—  0,  certainly, —  said  the  director. —  For  the  cloister  it 
is  all  right,  but  for  the  street  I  really  think  it  would  be 
better  to  do  away  with,  don't  you?  — 

—  It  must  be  troublesome,  I  imagine  ?  — 

—  Of  course  it  is,  of  course.  Just  imagine  when  I  was 
in  Belgium  I  used  to  see  them  out  cycling  in  all  kinds  of 
weather  with  this  thing  up  about  their  knees!  It  was 
really  ridiculous.  Les  jupes,  they  call  them  in  Bel- 
gium.— 

The  vowel  was  so  modified  as  to  be  indistinct. 

—  What  do  they  call  them  ?  — 
— ■  Les  jupes, — 

—  0 !  — 

Stephen  smiled  again  in  answer  to  the  smile  which  he 
[179] 


could  not  see  on  the  priest's  shadowed  face,  its  image 
or  spectre  only  passing  rapidly  across  his  mind  as  the 
low  discreet  accent  fell  upon  his  ear.  He  gazed  calmly 
before  him  at  the  waning  sky,  glad  of  the  cool  of  the 
evening  and  the  faint  yellow  glow  which  hid  the  tiny 
flame  kindling  upon  his  cheek. 

The  names  of  articles  of  dress  worn  by  women  or  of 
certain  soft  and  delicate  stuffs  used  in  their  making 
brought  always  to  his  mind  a  delicate  and  sinful  per- 
fume. As  a  boy  he  had  imagined  the  reins  by  which 
horses  are  driven  as  slender  silken  bands  and  it  shocked 
him  to  feel  at  Stradbrooke  the  greasy  leather  of  harness. 
It  had  shocked  him,  too,  when  he  had  felt  for  the  first 
time  beneath  his  tremulous  fingers  the  brittle  texture 
of  a  woman's  stocking  for,  retaining  nothing  of  all  he 
read  save  that  which  seemed  to  him  an  echo  or  a  proph- 
ecy of  his  own  state,  it  was  only  amid  softworded 
phrases  or  within  rosesoft  stuffs  that  he  dared  to  con- 
ceive of  the  soul  or  body  of  a  woman  moving  with  tender 
life. 

But  the  phrase  on  the  priest's  lips  was  disingenuous 
for  he  knew  that  a  priest  should  not  speak  lightly  on 
that  theme.  The  phrase  had  been  spoken  lightly  with 
design  and  he  felt  that  his  face  was  being  searched  by 
the  eyes  in  the  shadow.  "Whatever  he  had  heard  or  read 
of  the  craft  of  Jesuits  he  had  put  aside  frankly  as  not 
borne  out  by  his  own  experience.  His  masters,  even 
when  they  had  not  attracted  him,  had  seemed  to  him 
always  intelligent  and  serious  priests,  athletic  and  high- 
spirited  prefects.  He  thought  of  them  as  men  who 
washed  their  bodies  briskly  with  cold  water  and  wore 
dean  cold  linen.    During  all  the  years  he  had  lived 

[180]   , 


among  them  in  Clongowes  and  in  Belvedere  he  had 
received  only  two  pandies  and,  though  these  had  been 
dealt  him  in  the  wrong,  he  knew  that  he  had  often 
escaped  punishment.  During  all  those  years  he  had 
never  heard  from  any  of  his  masters  a  flippant  word :  it 
was  they  who  had  taught  him  christian  doctrine  and 
urged  him  to  live  a  good  life  and,  when  he  had  fallen 
into  grievous  sin,  it  was  they  who  had  led  him  back  to 
grace.  Their  presence  had  made  him  diffident  of  himself 
when  he  was  a  muff  in  Clongowes  and  it  had  made  him 
diffident  of  himself  also  while  he  had  held  his  equivocal 
position  in  Belvedere.  A  constant  sense  of  this  had 
remained  with  him  up  to  the  last  year  of  his  school  life. 
He  had  never  once  disobeyed  or  allowed  turbulent  com- 
panions to  seduce  him  from  his  habit  of  quiet  obedience : 
and,  even  when  he  doubted  some  statement  of  a  master, 
he  had  never  presumed  to  doubt  openly.  Lately  some  of 
their  judgments  had  sounded  a  little  childish  in  his  ears 
and  had  made  him  feel  a  regret  and  pity  as  though  he 
were  slowly  passing  out  of  an  accustomed  world  and 
were  hearing  its  language  for  the  last  time.  One  day 
when  some  boys  had  gathered  round  a  priest  under  the 
shed  near  the  chapel,  he  heard  the  priest  say : 

—  I  believe  that  Lord  Macaulay  was  a  man  who  prob- 
ably never  committed  a  mortal  sin  in  his  life,  that  is  to 
say,  a  deliberate  mortal  sin. — 

Some  of  the  boys  had  then  asked  the  priest  if  Victor 
Hugo  were  not  the  greatest  French  writer.  The  priest 
had  answered  that  Victor  Hugo  had  never  written  half 
so  well  when  he  had  turned  against  the  church  as  he  had 
written  when  he  was  a  catholic. 

—  But  there  are  many  eminent  French  critics, —  said 

[181] 


the  priest, —  who  consider  that  even  Victor  Hugo,  great 
as  he  certainly  was,  had  not  so  pure  a  French  style  as 
Louis  Yeuillot. — 

The  tiny  flame  which  the  priest's  allusion  had  kindled 
upon  Stephen's  cheek  had  sunk  down  again  and  his  eyes 
were  still  fixed  calmly  on  the  colourless  sky.  But  an 
unresting  doubt  flew  hither  and  thither  before  his  mind. 
Masked  memories  passed  quickly  before  him:  he  recog- 
nised scenes  and  persons  yet  he  was  conscious  that  he 
had  failed  to  perceive  some  vital  circumstance  in  them. 
He  saw  himself  walking  about  the  grounds  watching  the 
sports  in  Clongowes  and  eating  chocolate  out  of  his 
cricketcap.  Some  Jesuits  were  walking  round  the  cycle- 
track  in  the  company  of  ladies.  The  echoes  of  certain 
expressions  used  in  Clongowes  sounded  in  remote  caves 
of  his  mind. 

His  ears  were  listening  to  these  distant  echoes  amid 
the  silence  of  the  parlour  when  he  became  aware  that 
the  priest  was  addressing  him  in  a  different  voice. 

—  I  sent  for  you  today,  Stephen,  because  I  wished  to 
speak  to  you  on  a  very  important  subject. — 

—  Yes,  sir. — 

—  Have  you  ever  felt  that  you  had  a  vocation  ?  — 
Stephen  parted  his  lips  to  answer  yes  and  then  with- 
held the  word  suddenly.     The  priest  waited  for  the  an- 
swer and  added : 

—  I  mean  have  you  ever  felt  within  yourself,  in  your 
soul,  a  desire  to  join  the  order.     Think. — 

—  I  have  sometimes  thought  of  it, —  said  Stephen. 

The  priest  let  the  blindcord  fall  to  one  side  and,  unit- 
ing his  hands,  leaned  his  chin  gravely  upon  them,  com- 
muning with  himself. 

—  In  a  college  like  this, —  he  said  at  length, —  there  is 

[182], 


one  boy  or  perhaps  two  or  three  boys  whom  God  calls 
to  the  religious  life.  Such  a  boy  is  marked  off  from  his 
companions  by  his  piety,  by  the  good  example  he  shows 
to  others.  He  is  looked  up  to  by  them;  he  is  chosen 
perhaps  as  prefect  by  his  fellow  sodalists.  And  you, 
Stephen,  have  been  such  a  boy  in  this  college,  prefect 
of  Our  Blessed  Lady's  sodality.  Perhaps  you  are  the 
boy  in  this  college  whom  God  designs  to  call  to  Him- 
self.— 

A  strong  note  of  pride  reinforcing  the  gravity  of  the 
priest's  voice  made  Stephen's  heart  quicken  in  response. 
—  To  receive  that  call,  Stephen, —  said  the  priest, —  is  the 
greatest  honour  that  the  Almighty  God  can  bestow  upon 
a  man.  No  king  or  emperor  on  this  earth  has  the  power 
of  the  priest  of  God.  No  angel  or  archangel  in  heaven, 
no  saint,  not  even  the  Blessed  Virgin  herself  has  the 
power  of  a  priest  of  God:  the  power  of  the  keys,  the 
power  to  bind  and  to  loose  from  sin,  the  power  of  exor- 
cism, the  power  to  cast  out  from  the  creatures  of  God 
the  evil  spirits  that  have  power  over  them,  the  power, 
the  authority,  to  make  the  great  God  of  Heaven  come 
down  upon  the  altar  and  take  the  form  of  bread  and  wine. 
What  an  awful  power,  Stephen !  — 

A  flame  began  to  flutter  again  on  Stephen's  cheek  as 
he  heard  in  this  proud  address  an  echo  of  his  own  proud 
musings.  How  often  had  he  seen  himself  as  a  priest 
wielding  calmly  and  humbly  the  awful  power  of  which 
angels  and  saints  stood  in  reverence !  His  soul  had  loved 
to  muse  in  secret  on  this  desire.  He  had  seen  himself, 
a  young  and  silentmannered  priest,  entering  a  confes- 
sional swiftly,  ascending  the  altarsteps,  incensing,  genu- 
flecting, accomplishing  the  vague  acts  of  the  priest- 
hood which  pleased  him  by  reason  of  their  semblance  of 

[183] 


reality  and  of  their  distance  from  it.  In  that  dim  life 
which  he  had  lived  through  in  his  musings  he  had  as- 
sumed the  voices  and  gestures  which  he  had  noted  with 
various  priests.  He  had  bent  his  knee  sideways  like 
such  a  one,  he  had  shaken  the  thurible  only  slightly  like 
such  a  one,  his  chasuble  had  swung  open  like  that  of 
such  another  as  he  turned  to  the  altar  again  after  having 
blessed  the  people.  And  above  all  it  had  pleased  him 
to  fill  the  second  place  in  those  dim  scenes  of  his  imagin- 
ing. He  shrank  from  the  dignity  of  celebrant  because  it 
displeased  him  to  imagine  that  all  the  vague  pomp 
should  end  in  his  own  person  or  that  the  ritual  should 
assign  to  him  so  clear  and  final  an  ofiice.  He  longed  for 
the  minor  sacred  offices,  to  be  vested  with  the  tunicle  of 
subdeacon  at  high  mass,  to  stand  aloof  from  the  altar, 
forgotten  by  the  people,  his  shoulders  covered  with  a 
humeral  veil,  holding  the  paten  within  its  folds  or,  when 
the  sacrifice  had  been  accomplished,  to  stand  as  deacon 
in  a  dalmatic  cloth  of  gold  on  the  step  below  the  cele- 
brant, his  hands  joined  and  his  face  towards  the  people, 
and  sing  the  chant,  Ite  missa  est.  If  ever  he  had  seen 
himself  celebrant  it  was  as  in  the  pictures  of  the  mass 
in  his  child 's  massbook,  in  a  church  without  worshippers, 
save  for  the  angel  of  the  sacrifice,  at  a  bare  altar  and 
served  by  an  acolyte  scarcely  more  boyish  than  himself. 
In  vague  sacrificial  or  sacramental  acts  alone  his  will 
seemed  drawn  to  go  forth  to  encounter  reality :  and  it  was 
partly  the  absence  of  an  appointed  rite  which  had  always 
constrained  him  to  inaction  whether  he  had  allowed 
silence  to  cover  his  anger  or  pride  or  had  suffered  only 
an  embrace  he  longed  to  give. 

He  listened  in  reverent  silence  now  to  the  priest's 
appeal  and  through  the  words  he  heard  even  more  dis- 

[184] 


tinctly  a  voice  bidding  him  approach,  offering  him  secret 
knowledge  and  secret  power.  He  would  know  then  what 
was  the  sin  of  Simon  Magus  and  what  the  sin  against 
the  Holy  Ghost  for  which  there  was  no  forgiveness.  He 
would  know  obscure  things,  hidden  from  others,  from 
those  who  were  conceived  and  born  children  of  wrath. 
He  would  know  the  sins,  the  sinful  longings  and  sinful 
thoughts  and  sinful  acts,  of  others,  hearing  them  mur- 
mured into  his  ears  in  the  confessional  under  the  shame 
of  a  darkened  chapel  by  the  lips  of  women  and  of  girls : 
but  rendered  immune  mysteriously  at  his  ordination  by 
the  imposition  of  hands  his  soul  would  pass  again  uncon- 
taminated  to  the  white  peace  of  the  altar.  No  touch  of 
sin  would  linger  upon  the  hands  with  which  he  would 
elevate  and  break  the  host ;  no  touch  of  sin  would  linger 
on  his  lips  in  prayer  to  make  him  eat  and  drink  damna- 
tion to  himself  not  discerning  the  body  of  the  Lord.  He 
would  hold  his  secret  knowledge  and  secret  power,  being 
as  sinless  as  the  innocent :  and  he  would  be  a  priest  for 
ever  according  to  the  order  of  Melchisedec. 

—  I  will  offer  up  my  mass  tomorrow  morning,  said 
the  director,  that  Almighty  God  may  reveal  to  you  His 
holy  will.  And  let  you,  Stephen,  make  a  novena  to  your 
holy  patron  saint,  the  first  martyr  who  is  very  powerful 
with  God,  that  God  may  enlighten  your  mind.  But  you 
must  be  quite  sure,  Stephen,  that  you  have  a  vocation 
because  it  would  be  terrible  if  you  found  afterwards  that 
you  had  none.  Once  a  priest  always  a  priest,  remember. 
Your  catechism  tells  you  that  the  sacrament  of  Holy 
Orders  is  one  of  those  which  can  be  received  only  once 
because  it  imprints  on  the  soul  an  indelible  spiritual  mark 
which  can  never  be  effaced.  It  is  before  you  must  weigh 
well,  not  after.    It  is  a  solemn  question,  Stephen,  be- 

[185] 


cause  on  it  may  depend  the  salvation  of  your  eternal 
soul.    But  we  will  pray  to  God  together. — 

He  held  open  the  heavy  hall  door  and  gave  his  hand  as 
if  already  to  a  companion  in  the  spiritual  life.  Stephen 
passed  out  on  to  the  wide  platform  above  the  steps  and 
was  conscious  of  the  caress  of  mild  evening  air.  Towards 
Findlater's  church  a  quartette  of  young  men  were 
striding  along  with  linked  arms,  swaying  their  heads  and 
stepping  to  the  agile  melody  of  their  leader's  concertina. 
The  music  passed  in  an  instant,  as  the  first  bars  of  sud- 
den music  always  did,  over  the  fantastic  fabrics  of  his 
mind,  dissolving  them  painlessly  and  noiselessly  as  a 
sudden  wave  dissolves  the  sandbuilt  turrets  of  children. 
Smiling  at  the  trivial  air  he  raised  his  eyes  to  the  priest's 
face  and,  seeing  in  it  a  mirthless  reflection  of  the  sunken 
day,  detached  his  hand  slowly  which  had  acquiesced 
faintly  in  that  companionship. 

As  he  descended  the  steps  the  impression  which  effaced 
his  troubled  self  communion  was  that  of  a  mirthless  mask 
reflecting  a  sunken  day  from  the  threshold  of  the 
college.  The  shadow,  then,  of  the  life  of  the  college 
passed  gravely  over  his  consciousness.  It  was  a  grave 
and  ordered  and  passionless  life  that  awaited  him,  a  life 
without  material  cares.  He  wondered  how  he  would 
pass  the  first  night  in  the  novitiate  and  with  what  dismay 
he  would  wake  the  first  morning  in  the  dormitory.  The 
troubling  odour  of  the  long  corridors  of  Clongowes  came 
back  to  him  and  he  heard  the  discreet  murmur  of  the 
burning  gas  flames.  At  once  from  every  part  of  his  being 
unrest  began  to  irradiate.  A  feverish  quickening  of  his 
pulses  followed  and  a  din  of  meaningless  words  drove 
his  reasoned  thoughts  hither  and  thither  confusedly. 
His  lungs  dilated  and  sank  as  if  he  were  inhaling  a  warm 

[186] 


moist  unsustaining  air,  and  he  smelt  again  the  moist 
warm  air  which  hung  in  the  bath  in  Clongowes  above 
the  sluggish  turf  coloured  water. 

Some  instinct,  waking  at  these  memories,  stronger 
than  education  or  piety  quickened  within  him  at  every 
near  approach  to  that  life,  an  instinct  subtle  and  hostile, 
and  armed  him  against  acquiescence.  The  chill  and 
order  of  the  life  repelled  him.  He  saw  himself  rising  in 
the  cold  of  the  morning  and  filing  down  with  the  others 
to  early  mass  and  trying  vainly  to  struggle  with  his 
prayers  against  the  fainting  sickness  of  his  stomach.  He 
saw  himself  sitting  at  dinner  with  the  community  of  a 
college.  What,  then,  had  become  of  that  deeprooted 
shyness  of  his  which  had  made  him  loth  to  eat  or  drink 
under  a  strange  roof?  What  had  come  of  the  pride  of 
his  spirit  which  had  always  made  him  conceive  himself 
as  a  being  apart  in  every  order  ? 

The  Reverend  Stephen  Dedalus,  S.  J. 

His  name  in  that  new  life  leaped  into  characters  before 
his  eyes  and  to  it  there  followed  a  mental  sensation  of 
an  undefined  face  or  colour  of  a  face.  The  colour  faded 
and  became  strong  like  a  changing  glow  of  pallid  brick 
red:  Was  it  the  raw  reddish  glow  he  had  so  often  seen 
on  wintry  mornings  on  the  shaven  gills  of  the  priests? 
The  face  was  eyeless  and  sourf avoured  and  devout,  shot 
with  pink  tinges  of  suffocated  anger.  Was  it  not  a  mental 
spectre  of  the  face  of  one  of  the  Jesuits  whom  some  of  the 
boys  called  Lantern  Jaws  and  others  Foxy  Campbell  ? 

He  was  passing  at  that  moment  before  the  Jesuit 
house  in  Gardimer  Street,  and  wondered  vaguely  which 
window  would  be  his  if  he  ever  joined  the  order.  Then 
he  wondered  at  the  vagueness  of  his  wonder,  at  the 
remoteness  of  his  own  soul  from  what  he  had  hitherto 

[187] 


imagined  her  sanctuary,  at  the  frail  hold  which  so  many 
years  of  order  and  obedience  had  of  him  when  once  a 
definite  and  irrevocable  act  of  his  threatened  to  end  for 
ever,  in  time  and  in  eternity,  his  freedom.  The  voice 
of  the  director  urging  upon  him  the  proud  claims  of  the 
church  and  the  mystery  and  power  of  the  priestly  office 
repeated  itself  idly  in  his  memory.  His  soul  was  not 
there  to  hear  and  greet  it  and  he  knew  now  that  the 
exhortation  he  had  listened  to  had  already  fallen  into  an 
idle  formal  tale.  He  would  never  swing  the  thurible 
before  the  tabernacle  as  priest.  His  destiny  was  to  be 
elusive  of  social  or  religious  orders.  The  wisdom  of  the 
priest's  appeal  did  not  touch  him  to  the  quick.  He  was 
destined  to  learn  his  own  wisdom  apart  from  others  or 
to  learn  the  wisdom  of  others  himself  wandering  among 
the  snares  of  the  world. 

The  snares  of  the  world  were  its  ways  of  sin.  He  would 
fall.  He  had  not  yet  fallen  but  he  would  fall  silently, 
in  an  instant.  Not  to  fall  was  too  hard,  too  hard :  and 
he  felt  the  silent  lapse  of  his  soul,  as  it  would  be  at  some 
instant  to  come,  falling,  falling,  but  not  yet  fallen,  still 
unf alien,  but  about  to  fall. 

He  crossed  the  bridge  over  the  stream  of  the  Tolka, 
and  turned  his  eyes  coldly  for  an  instant  towards  the 
faded  blue  shrine  of  the  Blessed  Virgin  which  stood  fowl- 
wise  on  a  pole  in  the  middle  of  a  hamshaped  encampment 
of  poor  cottages.  Then,  bending  to  the  left,  he  followed 
the  lane  which  led  up  to  his  house.  The  faint  sour  stink 
of  rotted  cabbages  came  towards  him  from  the  kitchen 
gardens  on  the  rising  ground  above  the  river.  He  smiled 
to  think  that  it  was  this  disorder,  the  misrule  and  confu- 
sion of  his  father's  house  and  the  stagnation  of  vegetable 
life,  which  was  to  win  the  day  in  his  soul.     Then  a  short 

[188] 


laugh  broke  from  his  lips  as  he  thought  of  that  solitary 
farmhand  in  the  kitchen  gardens  behind  their  house 
whom  they  had  nicknamed  The  Man  with  the  Hat.  A 
second  laugh,  taking  rise  from  the  first  after  a  pause, 
broke  from  him  involuntarily  as  he  thought  of  how  The 
Man  with  the  Hat  worked,  considering  in  turn  the  four 
points  of  the  sky  and  then  regretfully  plunging  his  spade 
in  the  earth. 

He  pushed  open  the  latchless  door  of  the  porch  and 
passed  through  the  naked  hallway  into  the  kitchen.  A 
group  of  his  brothers  and  sisters  was  sitting  round  the 
table.  Tea  was  nearly  over  and  only  the  last  of  the 
second  watered  tea  remained  in  the  bottoms  of  the  small 
glass  jars  and  jampots  which  did  service  for  teacups. 
Discarded  crusts  and  lumps  of  sugared  bread,  turned 
brown  by  the  tea  which  had  been  poured  over  them,  lay 
scattered  on  the  table.  Little  wells  of  tea  lay  here  and 
there  on  the  board  and  a  knife  with  a  broken  ivory 
handle  was  stuck  through  the  pith  of  a  ravaged  turnover. 

The  sad  quiet  greyblue  glow  of  the  dying  day  came 
through  the  window  and  the  open  door,  covering  over 
and  allaying  quietly  a  sudden  instinct  of  remorse  in 
Stephen's  heart.  All  that  had  been  denied  them  had 
been  freely  given  to  him,  the  eldest :  but  the  quiet  glow 
of  evening  showed  him  in  their  faces  no  sign  of  rancour. 

He  sat  near  them  at  the  table  and  asked  where  his 
father  and  mother  were.     One  answered; 

—  Goneboro  toboro  lookboro  atboro  aboro  houseboro. — 

Still  another  removal !  A  boy  named  Fallon,  in  Belve- 
dere, had  often  asked  him  with  a  silly  laugh  why  they 
moved  so  often.  A  frown  of  scorn  darkened  quickly  his 
forehead  as  he  heard  again  the  silly  laugh  of  the  ques- 
tioner. 

[189] 


He  asked : 

—  "Why  are  we  on  the  move  again,  if  it's  a  fair  ques- 
tion?— 

—  Becauseboro  theboro  landboro  lordboro  willboro 
putboro  usboro  outboro. — 

The  voice  of  his  youngest  brother  from  the  farther  side 
of  the  fireplace  began  to  sing  the  air  *'  Oft  in  the  Stilly 
Night."  One  by  one  the  others  took  up  the  air  until  a 
full  choir  of  voices  was  singing.  They  would  sing  so 
for  hours,  melody  after  melody,  glee  after  glee,  till  the 
last  pale  light  died  down  on  the  horizon,  till  the  first 
dark  nightclouds  came  forth  and  night  fell. 

He  waited  for  some  moments,  listening,  before  he  too 
took  up  the  air  with  them.  He  was  listening  with  pain 
of  spirit  to  the  overtone  of  weariness  behind  their  frail 
fresh  innocent  voices.  Even  before  they  set  out  on  life's 
journey  they  seemed  weary  already  of  the  way. 

He  heard  the  choir  of  voices  in  the  kitchen  echoed  and 
multiplied  through  an  endless  reverberation  of  the  choirs 
of  endless  generations  of  children:  and  heard  in  all  the 
echoes  an  echo  also  of  the  recurring  note  of  weariness 
and  pain.  All  seemed  weary  of  life  even  before  entering 
upon  it.  And  he  remembered  that  Newman  had  heard 
this  note  also  in  the  broken  lines  of  Virgil  **  giving 
utterance,  like  the  voice  of  Nature  herself,  to  that  pain 
and  weariness  yet  hope  of  better  things  which  has  been 
the  experience  of  her  children  in  every  time." 


He  could  wait  no  longer. 

From  the  door  of  Byron's  public-house  to  the  gate  of 
Clontarf  Chapel,  from  the  gate  of  Clontarf  Chapel  to 
the  door  of  Byron's  public-house,  and  then  back  again 

[190] 


to  the  chapel  and  then  back  again  to  the  public-house 
he  had  paced  slowly  at  first,  planting  his  steps  scrupu- 
lously in  the  spaces  of  the  patchwork  of  the  footpath, 
then  timing  their  fall  to  the  fall  of  verses.  A  full  hour 
had  passed  since  his  father  had  gone  in  with  Dan  Crosby, 
the  tutor,  to  find  out  for  him  something  about  the  uni- 
versity. For  a  full  hour  he  had  paced  up  and  down, 
waiting :  but  he  could  wait  no  longer. 

He  set  off  abruptly  for  the  Bull,  walking  rapidly  lest 
his  father's  shrill  whistle  might  call  him  back;  and  in  a 
few  moments  he  had  rounded  the  curve  at  the  police 
barrack  and  was  safe. 

Yes,  his  mother  was  hostile  to  the  idea,  as  he  had  read 
from  her  listless  silence.  Yet  her  mistrust  pricked  him 
more  keenly  than  his  father's  pride  and  he  thought 
coldly  how  he  had  watched  the  faith  which  was  fading 
down  in  his  soul  ageing  and  strengthening  in  her  eyes.  A 
dim  antagonism  gathered  force  within  him  and  darkened 
his  mind  as  a  cloud  against  her  disloyalty :  and  when  it 
passed,  cloudlike,  leaving  his  mind  serene  and  dutiful 
towards  her  again,  he  was  made  aware  dimly  and  with- 
out regret  of  a  first  noiseless  sundering  of  their  lives. 

The  university!  So  he  had  passed  beyond  the  chal- 
lenge of  the  sentries  who  had  stood  as  guardians  of  his 
boyhood  and  had  sought  to  keep  him  among  them  that 
he  might  be  subject  to  them  and  serve  their  ends.  Pride 
after  satisfaction  uplifted  him  like  long  slow  waves. 
The  end  he  had  been  bom  to  serve  yet  did  not  see  had 
led  him  to  escape  by  an  unseen  path:  and  now  it 
beckoned  to  him  once  more  and  a  new  adventure  was 
about  to  be  opened  to  him.  It  seemed  to  him  that  he 
heard  notes  of  fitful  music  leaping  upwards  a  tone  and 
downwards  a  diminishing  fourth,  upwards  a  tone  and 

[191] 


downwards  a  major  third,  like  triple-branching  flames 
leaping  fitfully,  flame  after  flame,  out  of  a  midnight 
wood.  It  was  an  elfin  prelude,  endless  and  formless; 
and,  as  it  grew  wilder  and  faster,  the  flames  leaping  out 
of  time,  he  seemed  to  hear  from  under  the  boughs  and 
grasses  wild  creatures  racing,  their  feet  pattering  like 
rain  upon  the  leaves.  Their  feet  passed  in  pattering 
tumult  over  his  mind,  the  feet  of  hares  and  rabbits,  the 
feet  of  harts  and  hinds  and  antelopes,  until,  he  heard 
them  no  more  and  remembered  only  a  proud  cadence 
from  Newman :  — 

—  Whose  feet  are  as  the  feet  of  harts  and  underneath 
the  everlasting  arms. — 

The  pride  of  that  dim  image  brought  back  to  his  mind 
the  dignity  of  the  office  he  had  refused.  All  through  his 
boyhood  he  had  mused  upon  that  which  he  had  so  often 
thought  to  be  his  destiny  and  when  the  moment  had 
come  for  him  to  obey  the  call  he  had  turned  aside,  obey- 
ing a  wayward  instinct.  Now  time  lay  between :  the  oils 
of  ordination  would  never  anoint  his  body.  He  had 
refused.    Why  ? 

He  turned  seaward  from  the  road  at  DoUymount  and 
as  he  passed  on  to  the  thin  wooden  bridge  he  felt  the 
planks  shaking  with  the  tramp  of  heavily  shod  feet.  A 
squad  of  Christian  Brothers  wa^  on  its  way  back  from 
the  Bull  and  had  begun  to  pass,  two  by  two,  across  the 
bridge.  Soon  the  whole  bridge  was  trembling  and  re- 
sounding. The  uncouth  faces  passed  him  two  by  two, 
stained  yellow  or  red  or  livid  by  the  sea,  and  as  he  strove 
to  look  at  them  with  ease  and  indifference,  a  faint  stain 
of  personal  shame  and  commiseration  rose  to  his  own 
face.  Angry  with  himself  he  tried  to  hide  his  face  from 
their  eyes  by  gazing  down  sideways  into  the  shallow 

[192] 


swirling  water  under  the  bridge  but  he  still  saw  a  reflec- 
tion therein  of  their  topheavy  silk  hats,  and  humble 
tapelike  collars  and  loosely  hanging  clerical  clothes. 

—  Brother  Hickey. 
Brother  Quaid. 
Brother  MacArdle. 
Brother  Keogh. — 

Their  piety  would  be  like  their  names,  like  their  faces, 
like  their  clothes ;  and  it  was  idle  for  him  to  tell  himself 
that  their  humble  and  contrite  hearts,  it  might  be,  paid 
a  far  richer  tribute  of  devotion  than  his  had  ever  been,  a 
gift  tenfold  more  acceptable  than  his  elaborate  adora- 
tion. It  was  idle  for  him  to  move  himself  to  be  generous 
towards  them,  to  tell  himself  that  if  he  ever  came  to 
their  gates,  stripped  of  his  pride,  beaten  and  in  beggar 's 
weeds,  that  they  would  be  generous  towards  him,  loving 
him  as  themselves.  Idle  and  embittering,  finally,  to 
argue,  against  his  own  dispassionate  certitude,  that  the 
commandment  of  love  bade  us  not  to  love  our  neighbours 
as  ourselves  with  the  same  amount  and  intensity  of  love 
but  to  love  him  as  ourselves  with  the  same  kind  of  love. 

He  drew  forth  a  phrase  from  his  treasure  and  spoke  it 
softly  to  himself : 

—  A  day  of  dappled  seaborne  clouds. — 

The  phrase  and  the  day  and  the  scene  harmonised  in 
a  chord.  Words.  Was  it  their  colours?  He  allowed 
them  to  glow  and  fade,  hue  after  hue :  sunrise  gold,  the 
russet  and  green  of  apple  orchards,  azure  of  waves,  the 
greyfringed  fleece  of  clouds.  No,  it  was  not  their 
colours :  it  was  the  poise  and  balance  of  the  period  itself. 
Did  he  then  love  the  rhythmic  rise  and  fall  of  words 
better  than  their  associations  of  legend  and  colour  ?  Or 
was  it  that,  being  as  weak  of  sight  as  he  was  shy  of 

[193], 


mind,  he  drew  less  pleasure  from  the  reflection  of  the 
glowing  sensible  world  through  the  prism  of  a  language 
manyeoloured  and  richly  storied  than  from  the  contem- 
plation of  an  inner  world  of  individual  emotions  mirrored 
perfectly  in  a  lucid  supple  periodic  prose. 

He  passed  from  the  trembling  bridge  on  to  firm  land 
again.  At  that  instant,  as  it  seemed  to  him,  the  air  was 
chilled;  and  looking  askance  towards  the  water  he  saw 
a  flying  squall  darkening  and  crisping  suddenly  the  tide. 
A  faint  click  at  his  heart,  a  faint  throb  in  his  throat  told 
him  once  more  of  how  his  flesh  dreaded  the  cold  infra- 
human  odour  of  the  sea :  yet  he  did  not  strike  across  the 
downs  on  his  left  but  held  straight  on  along  the  spine  of 
rocks  that  pointed  against  the  river's  mouth. 

A  veiled  sunlight  lit  up  faintly  the  grey  sheet  of  water 
where  the  river  was  embayed.  In  the  distance  along  the 
course  of  the  slowflowing  Liffey  slender  masts  flecked 
the  sky  and,  more  distant  still,  the  dim  fabric  of  the  city 
lay  prone  in  haze.  Like  a  scene  on  some  vague  arras, 
old  as  man's  weariness,  the  image  of  the  seventh  city  of 
Christendom  was  visible  to  him  across  the  timeless  air, 
no  older  nor  more  weary  nor  less  patient  of  subjection 
than  in  the  days  of  the  thingmote. 

Disheartened,  he  raised  his  eyes  towards  the  slow- 
drifting  clouds,  dappled  and  seaborne.  They  were 
voyaging  across  the  deserts  of  the  sky,  a  host  of  nomads 
on  the  march,  voyaging  high  over  Ireland,  westward 
bound.  The  Europe  they  had  come  from  lay  out  there 
beyond  the  Irish  Sea,  Europe  of  strange  tongues  and 
valleyed  and  woodbegirt  and  citadelled  and  of  en- 
trenched and  marshalled  races.  He  heard  a  confused 
music  within  him  as  of  memories  and  names  which  he 
was  almost  conscious  of  but  could  not  capture  even  for 

[194] 


an  instant;  then  the  music  seemed  to  recede,  to  recede, 
to  recede ;  and  from  each  receding  trail  of  nebulous  music 
there  fell  always  one  long-drawn  calling  note,  piercing 
like  a  star  the  dusk  of  silence.  Again !  Again !  Again ! 
A  voice  from  beyond  the  world  was  calling. 

—  Hello,  Stephanos !  — 

—  Here  comes  The  Dedalus !  — 

—  Ao!  .  .  .  Eh,  give  it  over,  Dwyer,  I'm  telling  you 
or  111  give  you  a  stuff  in  the  kisser  for  yourself.  .  .  . 
Ac!  — 

—  Good  man,  Towser !    Duck  him !  — 

—  Come  along,  Dedalus!  Bous  Stephanoumenos ! 
Bous  Stephanef oros !  — 

—  Duck  him !     Guzzle  him  now,  Towser !  — 

—  Help!    Help!  .  .  .  Ao!  — 

He  recognised  their  speech  collectively  before  he  dis- 
tinguished their  faces.  The  mere  sight  of  that  medley  of 
wet  nakedness  chilled  him  to  the  bone.  Their  bodies, 
corpsewhite  or  suffused  with  a  pallid  golden  light  or 
rawly  tanned  by  the  suns,  gleamed  with  the  wet  of  the 
sea.  Their  divingstone,  poised  on  its  rude  supports  and 
rocking  under  their  plunges,  and  the  rough-hewn  stones 
of  the  sloping  breakwater  over  which  they  scrambled  in 
their  horseplay,  gleamed  with  cold  wet  lustre.  The 
towels  with  which  they  smacked  their  bodies  were  heavy 
with  cold  seawater:  and  drenched  with  cold  brine  was 
their  matted  hair. 

He  stood  still  in  deference  to  their  calls  and  parried 
their  banter  with  easy  words.  How  characterless  they 
looked:  Shuley  without  his  deep  unbuttoned  collar, 
Ennis  without  his  scarlet  belt  with  the  snaky  clasp,  and 
Connolly  without  his  Norfolk  coat  with  the  flapless 
sidepockets !    It  was  a  pain  to  see  them  and  a  sword-like 

[195] 


pain  to  see  the  signs  of  adolescence  that  made  repellent 
their  pitiable  nakedness.  Perhaps  they  had  taken  refuge 
in  number  and  noise  from  the  secret  dread  in  their  souls. 
But  he,  apart  from  them  and  in  silence,  remembered  in 
what  dread  he  stood  of  the  mystery  of  his  own  body. 

—  Stephanos  Dedalos !  Bous  Stephanoumenos !  Bous 
Stephanef  oros  1  — 

Their  banter  was  not  new  to  him  and  now  it  flattered 
his  mild  proud  sovereignty.  Now,  as  never  before,  his 
strange  name  seemed  to  him  a  prophecy.  So  timeless 
seemed  the  grey  warm  air,  so  fluid  and  impersonal  his 
own  mood,  that  all  ages  were  as  one  to  him.  A  moment 
before  the  ghost  of  the  ancient  kingdom  of  the  Danes 
had  looked  forth  through  the  vesture  of  the  hazewrapped 
city.  Now,  at  the  name  of  the  fabulous  artificer,  he 
seemed  to  hear  the  noise  of  dim  waves  and  to  see  a 
winged  form  flying  above  the  waves  and  slowly  climbing 
the  air.  What  did  it  mean?  "Was  it  a  quaint  device 
opening  a  page  of  some  medieval  book  of  prophecies  and 
symbols,  a  hawklike  man  flying  sunward  above  the  sea, 
a  prophecy  of  the  end  he  had  been  born  to  serve  and 
Jiad  been  following  through  the  mists  of  childhood  and 
boyhood,  a  symbol  of  the  artist  forging  anew  in  his 
workshop  out  of  the  sluggish  matter  of  the  earth  a  new 
soaring  impalpable  imperishable  being? 

His  heart  trembled ;  his  breath  came  faster  and  a  wild 
spirit  passed  over  his  limbs  as  though  he  were  soaring 
sunward.  His  heart  trembled  in  an  ecstasy  of  fear  and 
his  soul  was  in  flighto  His  soul  was  soaring  in  an  air 
beyond  the  world  and  the  body  he  knew  was  purified  in 
a  breath  and  delivered  of  incertitude  and  made  radiant 
and  commingled  with  the  element  of  the  spirit.  An 
ecstasy  of  flight  made  radiant  his  eyes  and  wild  his 

[196] 


breath  and  tremulous  and  wild  and  radiant  his  wind- 
swept limbs. 

—  One !     Two !  .  .  .  Look  out !  — 

—  0,  Gripes,  I  'm  drownded !  — 

—  One !     Two !     Three  and  away !  — 

—  The  next !    The  next !  — 

—  One!  .  .  .  Uk!  — 

—  Stephanef  oros !  — 

His  throat  ached  with  a  desire  to  cry  aloud,  the  cry 
of  a  hawk  or  eagle  on  high,  to  cry  piercingly  of  his 
deliverance  to  the  winds.  This  was  the  call  of  life  to  his 
soul  not  the  dull  gross  voice  of  the  world  of  duties  and 
despair,  not  the  inhuman  voice  that  had  called  him  to 
the  pale  service  of  the  altar.  An  instant  of  wild  flight 
had  delivered  him  and  the  cry  of  triumph  which  his  lips 
withheld  cleft  his  brain. 

—  Stephanef  oros !  — 

What  were  they  now  but  the  cerements  shaken  from 
the  body  of  death  —  the  fear  he  had  walked  in  night  and 
day,  the  incertitude  that  had  ringed  him  round,  the* 
shame  that  had  abased  him  within  and  without  —  cere- 
ments, the  linens  of  the  grave  ? 

His  soul  had  arisen  from  the  grave  of  boyhood,  spum- 
ing her  graveclothes.  Yes!  Yes!  Yes!  He  would 
create  proudly  out  of  the  freedom  and  power  of  his  soul, 
as  the  great  artificer  whose  name  he  bore,  a  living  thing, 
new  and  soaring  and  beautiful,  impalpable,  imperish- 
able. 

He  started  up  nervously  from  the  stoneblock  for  he 
could  no  longer  quench  the  flame  in  his  blood.  He  felt 
his  cheeks  aflame  and  his  throat  throbbing  with  song. 
There  was  a  lust  of  wandering  in  his  feet  that  burned  to 
set  out  for  the  ends  of  the  earth.     On !     On !  his  heart 

[197] 


seemed  to  cry.  Evening  would  deepen  above  the  sea, 
night  fall  upon  the  plains,  dawn  glimmer  before  the 
wanderer  and  show  him  strange  fields  and  hills  and  faces. 
Where? 

He  looked  northward  towards  Howth.  The  sea  had 
fallen  below  the  line  of  seawrack  on  the  shallow  side  of 
the  breakwater  and  already  the  tide  was  running  out 
fast  along  the  foreshore.  Already  one  long  oval  bank  of 
sand  lay  warm  and  dry  amid  the  wavelets.  Here  and 
there  warm  isles  of  sand  gleamed  above  the  shallow  tide : 
and  about  the  isles  and  around  the  long  bank  and  amid 
the  shallow  currents  of  the  beach  were  lightclad  figures, 
wading  and  delving. 

In  a  few  moments  he  was  barefoot,  his  stockings  folded 
in  his  pockets,  and  his  canvas  shoes  dangling  by  their 
knotted  laces  over  his  shoulders :  and,  picking  a  pointed 
salt  eat  en  stick  out  of  the  jetsam  among  the  rocks,  he 
clambered  down  the  slope  of  the  breakwater. 

There  was  a  long  rivulet  in  the  strand:  and,  as  he 
waded  slowly  up  its  course,  he  wondered  at  the  endless 
drift  of  seaweed.  Emerald  and  black  and  russet  and 
olive,  it  moved  beneath  the  current,  swaying  and  turn- 
ing. The  water  of  the  rivulet  was  dark  with  endless 
drift  and  mirrored  the  highdrifting  clouds.  The  clouds 
were  drifting  above  him  silently  and  silently  the  sea- 
tangle  was  drifting  below  him ;  and  the  grey  warm  air 
was  still :  and  a  new  wild  life  was  singing  in  his  veins. 

Where  was  his  boyhood  now  ?  Where  was  the  soul  that 
had  hung  back  from  her  destiny,  to  brood  alone  upon  the 
shame  of  her  wounds  and  in  her  house  of  squalor  and 
subterfuge  to  queen  it  in  faded  cerements  and  in  wreaths 
that  withered  at  the  touch  ?    Or,  where  was  he. 

He  was  alone.  He  was  unheeded,  happy,  and  near  to 
[198] 


the  wild  heart  of  life.  He  was  alone  and  young  and 
wilful  and  wildhearted,  alone  amid  a  waste  of  wild  air 
and  brackish  waters  and  the  seaharvest  of  shells  and 
tangle  and  veiled  grey  sunlight  and  gayelad  lightclad 
figures  of  children  and  girls  and  voices  childish  and 
girlish  in  the  air. 

A  girl  stood  before  him  in  midstream :  alone  and  still, 
gazing  out  to  sea.  She  seemed  like  one  whom  magic  had 
changed  into  the  likeness  of  a  strange  and  beautiful  sea- 
bird.  Her  long  slender  bare  legs  were  delicate  as  a 
crane 's  and  pure  save  where  an  emerald  trail  of  seaweed 
had  fashioned  itself  as  a  sign  upon  the  flesh.  Her  thighs, 
fuller  and  softhued  as  ivory,  were  bared  almost  to  the 
hips  where  the  white  fringes  of  her  drawers  were  like 
feathering  of  soft  white  down.  Her  slate-blue  skirts 
were  kilted  boldly  about  her  waist  and  dovetailed  be- 
hind her.  Her  bosom  was  as  a  bird's,  soft  and  slight, 
slight  and  soft  as  the  breast  of  some  dark-plumaged 
dove.  But  her  long  fair  hair  was  girlish:  and  girlish, 
and  touched  with  the  wonder  of  mortal  beauty,  her  face. 

She  was  alone  and  still,  gazing  out  to  sea;  and  when 
she  felt  his  presence  and  the  worship  of  his  eyes  her 
eyes  turned  to  him  in  quiet  sufferance  of  his  gaze,  with- 
out shame  or  wantonness.  Long,  long  she  suffered  his 
gaze  and  then  quietly  withdrew  her  eyes  from  his  and 
bent  them  towards  the  stream,  gently  stirring  the  water 
with  her  foot  hither  and  thither.  The  first  faint  noise 
of  gently  moving  water  broke  the  silence,  low  and  faint 
and  whispering,  faint  as  the  bells  of  sleep;  hither  and 
thither,  hither  and  thither:  and  a  faint  flame  trembled 
on  her  cheek. 

—  Heavenly  God !  cried  Stephen's  soul,  in  an  outburst 
of  profane  joy. — 

[199] 


He  turned  away  from  her  suddenly  and  set  off  across 
the  strand.  His  cheeks  were  aflame ;  his  body  was  aglow ; 
his  limbs  were  trembling.  On  and  on  and  on  and  on  he 
strode,  far  out  over  the  sands,  singing  wildly  to  the  sea, 
crying  to  greet  the  advent  of  the  life  that  had  cried  to 
him. 

Her  image  had  passed  into  his  soul  for  ever  and  no 
word  had  broken  the  holy  silence  of  his  ecstasy.  Her 
eyes  had  called  him  and  his  soul  had  leaped  at  the  call. 
To  live,  to  err,  to  fall,  to  triumph,  to  recreate  life  out 
of  life !  A  wild  angel  had  appeared  to  him,  the  angel  of 
mortal  youth  and  beauty,  an  envoy  from  the  fair  courts 
of  life,  to  throw  open  before  him  in  an  instant  of  ecstasy 
the  gates  of  all  the  ways  of  error  and  glory.  On  and  on 
and  on  and  on ! 

He  halted  suddenly  and  heard  his  heart  in  the  silence. 
How  far  had  he  walked  ?    What  hour  was  it  ? 

There  was  no  human  figure  near  him  nor  any  sound 
borne  to  him  over  the  air.  But  the  tide  was  near  the 
turn  and  already  the  day  was  on  the  wane.  He  turned 
landward  and  ran  towards  the  shore  and^  running  up  the 
sloping  beach,  reckless  of  the  sharp  shingle,  found  a 
sandy  nook  amid  a  ring  of  tufted  sand  knolls  and  lay 
down  there  that  the  peace  and  silence  of  the  evening 
might  still  the  riot  of  his  blood. 

He  felt  above  him  the  vast  indifferent  dome  and  the 
calm  processes  of  the  heavenly  bodies:  and  the  earth 
beneath  him,  the  earth  that  had  borne  him,  had  taken 
him  to  her  breast. 

He  closed  his  eyes  in  the  languor  of  sleep.  His  eye- 
lids trembled  as  if  they  felt  the  vast  cyclic  movement  of 
the  earth  and  her  watchers,  trembled  as  if  they  felt  the 
strange  light  of  some  new  world.    His  soul  was  swooning 

[200] 


into  some  new  world,  fantastic,  dim,  uncertain  as  under 
sea,  traversed  by  cloudy  shapes  and  beings.  A  world, 
a  glimmer,  or  a  flower?  Glimmering  and  trembling, 
trembling  and  unfolding,  a  breaking  light,  an  opening 
flower,  it  spread  in  endless  succession  to  itself,  breaking 
in  full  crimson  and  unfolding  and  fading  to  palest  rose, 
leaf  by  leaf  and  wave  of  light  by  wave  of  light,  flooding 
all  the  heavens  with  its  soft  flushes,  every  flush  deeper 
than  other. 

Evening  had  fallen  when  he  woke  and  the  sand  and 
arid  grasses  of  his  bed  glowed  no  longer.  He  rose  slowly 
and,  recalling  the  rapture  of  his  sleep,  sighed  at  its  joy. 

He  climbed  to  the  crest  of  the  sandhill  and  gazed  about 
him.  Evening  had  fallen,  A  rim  of  the  young  moon 
cleft  the  pale  waste  of  sky  line,  the  rim  of  a  silver  hoop 
embedded  in  grey  sand :  and  the  tide  was  flowing  in  fast 
to  the  land  with  a  low  whisper  of  her  waves,  islanding  a 
few  last  figures  in  distant  pools. 


[201] 


CHAPTEE  V 

He  drained  his  third  cup  of  watery  tea  to  the  dregs 
and  set  to  chewing  the  crusts  of  fried  bread  that  were 
scattered  near  him,  staring  into  the  dark  pool  of  the  jar. 
The  yellow  dripping  had  been  scooped  out  like  a  boghole, 
and  the  pool  under  it  brought  back  to  his  memory  the 
dark  turfcoloured  water  of  the  bath  in  Clongowes.  The 
box  of  pawn  tickets  at  his  elbow  had  just  been  rifled  and 
he  took  up  idly  one  after  another  in  his  greasy  fingers  the 
blue  and  white  dockets,  scrawled  and  sanded  and  creased 
and  bearing  the  name  of  the  pledger  as  Daly  or  Mac- 
Evoy. 

1  Pair  Buskins. 

1  D.  Coat. 

3  Articles  and  White. 

1  Man's  Pants. 

Then  he  put  them  aside  and  gazed  thoughtfully  at 
the  lid  of  the  box,  speckled  with  louse  marks,  and  asked 
vaguely : 

—  How  much  is  the  clock  fast  now  ? 

His  mother  straightened  the  battered  alarm  clock  that 
was  lying  on  its  side  in  the  middle  of  the  mantelpiece 
until  its  dial  showed  a  quarter  to  twelve  and  then  laid  it 
once  more  on  its  side. 

—  An  hour  and  twenty  five  minutes,  she  said.    The 

[202] 


right  time  now  is  twenty  past  ten.    The  dear  knows  you 
might  try  to  be  in  time  for  your  lectures. 

—  Fill  out  the  place  for  me  to  wash,  said  Stephen. 

—  Katey,  fill  out  the  place  for  Stephen  to  wash. 

—  Booty,  fill  out  the  place  for  Stephen  to  wash. 

—  I  can't,  I'm  going  for  blue.  Fill  it  out,  you,  Mag- 
gie. 

When  the  enamelled  basin  had  been  fitted  into  the 
well  of  the  sink  and  the  old  washing  glove  flung  on  the 
side  of  it,  he  allowed  his  mother  to  scrub  his  neck  and 
root  into  the  folds  of  his  ears  and  into  the  interstices  at 
the  wings  of  his  nose. 

—  Well,  it's  a  poor  case,  she  said,  when  a  university 
student  is  so  dirty  that  his  mother  has  to  wash  him. 

—  But  it  gives  you  pleasure,  said  Stephen  calmly. 

An  ear  splitting  whistle  was  heard  from  upstairs  and 
his  mother  thrust  a  damp  overall  into  his  hands,  saying : 

—  Dry  yourself  and  hurry  out  for  the  love  of  goodness. 
A  second  shrill  whistle,  prolonged  angrily,  brought  one 

of  the  girls  to  the  foot  of  the  staircase. 

—  Yes,  father? 

—  Is  your  lazy  bitch  of  a  brother  gone  out  yet? 

—  Yes,  father. 

—  Sure? 

—  Hm! 

The  girl  came  back,  making  signs  to  him  to  be  quick 
and  go  out  quietly  by  the  back.  Stephen  laughed  and 
said: 

—  He  has  a  curious  idea  of  genders  if  he  thinks  a  bitch 
is  masculine. 

—  Ah,  it's  a  scandalous  shame  for  you,  Stephen,  said 
his  mother,  and  you'll  live  to  rue  the  day  you  set  your 
foot  in  that  place.    I  know  how  it  has  changed  you. 

[203] 


—  Good  morning,  everybody,  said  Stephen,  smiling 
and  kissing  the  tips  of  his  fingers  in  adieu. 

The  lane  behind  the  terrace  was  waterlogged  and  as 
he  went  down  it  slowly,  choosing  his  steps  amid  heaps 
of  wet  rubbish,  he  heard  a  mad  nun  screeching  in  the 
nun's  madhouse  beyond  the  wall. 

—  Jesus !    0  Jesus !    Jesus ! 

He  shook  the  sound  out  of  his  ears  by  an  angry  toss 
of  his  head  and  hurried  on,  stumbling  through  the 
mouldering  offal,  his  heart  already  bitten  by  an  ache 
of  loathing  and  bitterness.  His  father's  whistle,  his 
mother's  mutterings,  the  screech  of  an  unseen  maniac 
were  to  him  now  so  many  voices  offending  and  threaten- 
ing to  humble  the  pride  of  his  youth.  He  drove  their 
echoes  even  out  of  his  heart  with  an  execration:  but,  as 
he  walked  down  the  avenue  and  felt  the  grey  morning 
light  falling  about  him  through  the  dripping  trees  and 
smelt  the  strange  wild  smell  of  the  wet  leaves  and  bark, 
his  soul  was  loosed  of  her  miseries. 

The  rain  laden  trees  of  the  avenue  evoked  in  him, 
as  always,  memories  of  the  girls  and  women  in  the  plays 
of  Gerhart  Hauptmann;  and  the  memory  of  their  pale 
sorrows  and  the  fragrance  falling  from  the  wet  branches 
mingled  in  a  mood  of  quiet  joy.  His  morning  walk 
across  the  city  had  begun;  and  he  foreknew  that  as  he 
passed  the  sloblands  of  Fairview  he  would  think  of  the 
cloistral  silverveined  prose  of  Newman ;  that  as  he  walked 
along  the  North  Strand  Road,  glancing  idly  at  the  win- 
dows of  the  provision  shops,  he  would  recall  the  dark 
humour  of  Guido  Cavalcanti  and  smile;  that  as  he  went 
by  Baird's  stone  cutting  works  in  Talbot  Place  the 
spirit  of  Ibsen  would  blow  through  him  like  a  keen  wind, 
a  spirit  of  wayward  boyish  beauty;  and  that  passing  a 

[204] 


grimy  marine  dealer  *s  shop  beyond  the  Liffey  he  would 
repeat  the  song  by  Ben  Jonson  which  begins : 

/  was  not  wearier  where  I  lay. 

His  mind  when  wearied  of  its  search  for  the  essence 
of  beauty  amid  the  spectral  words  of  Aristotle  or  Aquinas 
turned  often  for  its  pleasure  to  the  dainty  songs  of  the 
Elizabethans.  His  mind,  in  the  vesture  of  a  doubting 
monk,  stood  often  in  shadow  under  the  windows  of  that 
age,  to  hear  the  grave  and  mocking  music  of  the  lutenists 
or  the  frank  laughter  of  waistcoateers  until  a  laugh  too 
low,  a  phrase,  tarnished  by  time,  of  chambering  and  false 
honour,  stung  his  monkish  pride  and  drove  him  on  from 
his  lurking-place. 

The  lore  which  he  was  believed  to  pass  his  days  brood- 
ing upon  so  that  it  had  rapt  him  from  the  companionship 
of  youth  was  only  a  garner  of  slender  sentences  from 
Aristotle's  Poetics  and  Psychology  and  a  Synopsis 
PhilosophioB'  Scholasticoe  ad  mentem  divi  Thomoe,  His 
thinking  was  a  dusk  of  doubt  and  selfmistrust,  lit  up  at 
moments  by  the  lightnings  of  intuition,  but  lightnings 
of  so  clear  a  splendour  that  in  those  moments  the  world 
perished  about  his  feet  as  if  it  had  been  fire  consumed : 
and  thereafter  his  tongue  grew  heavy  and  he  met  the 
eyes  of  others  with  unanswering  eyes  for  he  felt  that 
the  spirit  of  beauty  had  folded  him  round  like  a  mantle 
and  that  in  reverie  at  least  he  had  been  acquainted  with 
nobility.  But,  when  this  brief  pride  of  silence  upheld 
him  no  longer,  he  was  glad  to  find  himself  still  in  the 
midst  of  common  lives,  passing  on  his  way  amid  the 
squalor  and  noise  and  sloth  of  the  city  fearlessly  and 
with  a  light  heart. 

[205] 


Near  the  hoardings  on  the  canal  he  met  the  consump- 
tive man  with  the  doll's  face  and  the  brimless  hat  com- 
ing towards  him  down  the  slope  of  the  bridge  with  little 
steps,  tightly  buttoned  into  his  chocolate  overcoat,  and 
holding  his  furled  umbrella  a  span  or  two  from  him 
like  a  divining  rod.  It  must  be  eleven,  he  thought,  and 
peered  into  a  dairy  to  see  the  time.  The  clock  in  the 
dairy  told  him  that  it  was  five  minutes  to  five  but,  as 
he  turned  away,  he  heard  a  clock  somewhere  near  him, 
but  unseen,  beating  eleven  strokes  in  swift  precision. 
He  laughed  as  he  heard  it  for  it  made  him  think  of 
McCann;  and  he  saw  him  a  squat  figure  in  a  shooting 
jacket  and  breeches  and  with  a  fair  goatee,  standing 
in  the  wind  at  Hopkins'  corner,  and  heard  him  say : 

—  Dedalus,  you're  an  anti-social  being,  wrapped  up 
in  yourself.  I'm  not.  I'm  a  democrat:  and  I'll  work 
and  act  for  social  liberty  and  equality  among  all  classes 
and  sexes  in  the  United  States  of  the  Europe  of  the 
future. 

Eleven !  Then  he  was  late  for  that  lecture  too.  What 
day  of  the  week  was  it?  He  stopped  at  a  newsagent's 
to  read  the  headline  of  a  placard.  Thursday.  Ten  to 
eleven,  English ;  eleven  to  twelve,  French ;  twelve  to  one, 
Physics.  He  fancied  to  himself  the  English  lecture  and 
felt,  even  at  that  distance,  restless  and  helpless.  He 
saw  the  heads  of  his  classmates  meekly  bent  as  they 
wrote  in  their  notebooks  the  points  they  were  bidden  to 
note,  nominal  definitions,  essential  definitions  and  ex- 
amples or  dates  of  birth  or  death,  chief  works,  a  favour- 
able and  an  unfavourable  criticism  side  by  side.  His 
own  head  was  unbent  for  his  thoughts  wandered  abroad 
and  whether  he  looked  around  the  little  class  of  students 
or  out  of  the  window  across  the  desolate  gardens  of  the 

[206] 


Green  an  odour  assailed  him  of  cheerless  cellar  damp 
and  decay.  Another  head  than  his,  right  before  him  in 
the  first  benches,  was  poised  squarely  above  its  bending 
fellows  like  the  head  of  a. priest  appealing  without 
humility  to  the  tabernacle  for  the  humble  worshippers 
about  him.  Why  was  it  that  when  he  thought  of  Cranly 
he  could  never  raise  before  his  mind  the  entire  image  of 
his  body  but  only  the  image  of  the  head  and  face  ?  Even 
now  against  the  grey  curtain  of  the  morning  he  saw  it 
before  him  like  the  phantom  of  a  dream,  the  face  of  a 
severed  head  or  death-mask,  crowned  on  the  brows  by  its 
stiff  black  upright  hair  as  by  an  iron  crown.  It  was  a 
priestlike  face,  priestlike  in  its  pallor,  in  the  wide  winged 
nose,  in  the  shadowings  below  the  eyes  and  along  the 
jaws,  priestlike  in  the  lips  that  were  long  and  bloodless 
and  faintly  smiling:  and  Stephen,  remembering  swiftly 
how  he  had  told  Cranly  of  all  the  tumults  and  unrest  and 
longings  in  his  soul,  day  after  day  and  night  by  night, 
only  to  be  answered  by  his  friend's  listening  silence, 
would  have  told  himself  that  it  was  the  face  of  a  guilty 
priest  who  heard  confessions  of  those  whom  he  had  not 
power  to  absolve  but  that  he  felt  again  in  memory  the 
gaze  of  its  dark  womanish  eyes. 

Through  this  image  he  had  a  glimpse  of  a  strange 
dark  cavern  of  speculation  but  at  once  turned  away 
from  it,  feeling  that  it  was  not  yet  the  hour  to  enter  it. 
But  the  night  shade  of  his  friend's  listlessness  seemed 
to  be  diffusing  in  the  air  around  him  a  tenuous  and 
deadly  exhalation;  and  he  found  himself  glancing  from 
one  casual  word  to  another  on  his  right  or  left  in  stolid 
wonder  that  they  had  been  so  silently  emptied  of  in- 
stantaneous sense  until  every  mean  shop  legend  bound 
his  mind  like  the  words  of  a  spell  and  his  soul  shrivelled 

[207] 


up  sighing  with  age  as  he  walked  on  in  a  lane  among 
heaps  of  dead  language.  His  own  consciousness  of  lan- 
guage was  ebbing  from  his  brain  and  trickling  into  the 
very  words  themselves  which  set  to  band  and  disband 
themselves  in  wayward  rhythms : 

The  ivy  whines  upon  the  wall, 
And  whines  and  twines  upon  the  wall. 
The  yellow  ivy  upon  the  wall, 
Ivy,  ivy  up  the  wall. 

Did  any  one  ever  hear  such  drivel  ?  Lord  Almighty ! 
Who  ever  heard  of  ivy  whining  on  a  wall  ?  Yellow  ivy : 
that  was  all  right.  Yellow  ivory  also.  And  what  about 
ivory  ivy  ? 

The  word  now  shone  in  his  brain,  clearer  and  brighter 
than  any  ivory  sawn  from  the  mottled  tusks  of  elephants. 
Ivory,  ivoire,  avorio,  ebur.  One  of  the  first  examples 
that  he  had  learnt  in  Latin  had  run :  India  mittit  ehiir; 
and  he  recalled  the  shrewd  northern  face  of  the  rector 
who  had  taught  him  to  construe  the  Metamorphoses  of 
Ovid  in  a  courtly  English,  made  whimsical  by  the  men- 
tion of  porkers  and  potshreds  and  chines  of  bacon.  He 
had  learnt  what  little  he  knew  of  the  laws  of  Latin  verse 
from  a  ragged  book  written  by  a  Portuguese  priest. 

Contrahit  orator,  variant  in  carmine  vates. 

The  crises  and  victories  and  secessions  in  Roman  his- 
tory were  handed  on  to  him  in  the  trite  words  in  tanto 
discrimine  and  he  had  tried  to  peer  into  the  social  life 
of  the  city  of  cities  through  the  words  implere  ollam 
denariorum  which  the  rector  had  rendered  sonorously 

[208] 


as  the  filling  of  a  pot  with  denaries.  The  pages  of  his 
timewom  Horace  never  felt  cold  to  the  touch  even  when 
his  own  fingers  were  cold :  they  were  human  pages :  and 
fifty  years  before  they  had  been  turned  by  the  human 
fingers  of  John  Duncan  Inverarity  and  by  his  brother, 
William  Malcolm  Inverarity.  Yes,  those  were  noble 
names  on  the  dusky  flyleaf  and,  even  for  so  poor  a 
Latinist  as  he,  the  dusky  verses  were  as  fragrant  as 
though  they  had  lain  all  those  years  in  myrtle  and  lav- 
ender and  vervain ;  but  yet  it  wounded  him  to  think 
that  he  would  never  be  but  a  shy  guest  at  the  feast  of 
the  world's  culture  and  that  the  monkish  learning,  in 
terms  of  which  he  was  striving  to  forge  out  an  esthetic 
philosophy,  was  held  no  higher  by  the  age  he  lived  in 
than  the  subtle  and  curious  jargons  of  heraldry  and  fal- 
conry. 

The  grey  block  of  Trinity  on  his  left,  set  heavily  in 
the  city's  ignorance  like  a  dull  stone  set  in  a  cumbrous 
ring,  pulled  his  mind  downward ;  and  while  he  was  striv- 
ing this  way  and  that  to  free  his  feet  from  the  fetters  of 
the  reformed  conscience  he  came  upon  the  droll  statue  of 
the  national  poet  of  Ireland. 

He  looked  at  it  without  anger:  for,  though  sloth  of 
the  body  and  of  the  soul  crept  over  it  like  unseen  vermin, 
over  the  shuffling  feet  and  up  the  folds  of  the  cloak  and 
around  the  servile  head,  it  seemed  humbly  conscious  of 
its  indignity.  It  was  a  Pirbolg  in  the  borrowed  cloak  of 
a  Milesian ;  and  he  thought  of  his  friend  Davin,  the  peas- 
ant student.  It  was  a  jesting  name  between  them,  but 
the  young  peasant  bore  with  it  lightly : 

—  Go  on,  Stevie,  I  have  a  hard  head,  you  tell  me. 
Call  me  what  you  will. 

The  homely  version  of  his  christian  name  on  the  lips 
[209] 


of  his  friend  had  touched  Stephen  pleasantly  when  first 
heard  for  he  was  as  formal  in  speech  with  others  as 
they  were  with  him.  Often,  as  he  sat  in  Bavin's  rooms 
in  Grantham  Street,  wondering  at  his  friend's  well  made 
boots  that  flanked  the  wall  pair  by  pair  and  repeating 
for  his  friend's  simple  ear  the  verses  and  cadences  of 
others  which  were  the  veils  of  his  own  longing  and  de- 
jection, the  rude  Pirbolg  mind  of  his  listener  had  drawn 
his  mind  towards  it  and  flung  it  back  again,  drawing 
it  by  a  quiet  inbred  courtesy  of  attention  or  by  a  quaint 
turn  of  old  English  speech  or  by  the  force  of  its  delight 
in  rude  bodily  skill  —  for  Davin  had  sat  at  the  feet  of 
Michael  Cusack,  the  Gael  —  repelling  swiftly  and  sud- 
denly by  a  grossness  of  intelligence  or  by  a  bluntness  of 
feeling  or  by  a  dull  stare  of  terror  in  the  eyes,  the  terror 
of  soul  of  a  starving  Irish  village  in  which  the  curfew 
was  still  a  nightly  fear. 

Side  by  side  with  his  memory  of  the  deeds  of  prowess 
of  his  uncle  Mat  Davin,  the  athlete,  the  young  peasant 
worshipped  the  sorrowful  legend  of  Ireland.  The  gossip 
of  his  fellow  students  which  strove  to  render  the  flat 
life  of  the  college  significant  at  any  cost  loved  to  think 
of  him  as  a  young  fenian.  His  nurse  had  taught  him 
Irish  and  shaped  his  rude  imaginaation  by  the  broken 
lights  of  Irish  myth.  He  stood  towards  the  myth  upon 
which  no  individual  mind  had  ever  drawn  out  a  line  of 
beauty  and  to  its  unwieldy  tales  that  divided  themselves 
as  they  moved  down  the  cycles  in  the  same  attitude  as 
towards  the  Koman  catholic  religion,  the  attitude  of  a 
dull  witted  loyal  serf.  Whatsoever  of  thought  or  of  feel- 
ing came  to  him  from  England  or  by  way  of  English 
culture  his  mind  stood  armed  against  in  obedience  to 
a  password :  and  of  the  world  that  lay  beyond  England 

[210]  ' 


he  knew  only  the  foreign  legion  of  France  in  which  he 
spoke  of  serving. 

Coupling  this  ambition  with  the  young  man's  humour 
Stephen  had  often  called  him  one  of  the  tame  geese: 
and  there  was  even  a  point  of  irritation  in  the  name 
pointed  against  that  very  reluctance  of  speech  and  deed 
in  his  friend  which  seemed  so  often  to  stand  between 
Stephen's  mind,  eager  of  speculation,  and  the  hidden 
ways  of  Irish  life. 

One  night  the  young  peasant,  his  spirit  stung  by  the 
violent  or  luxurious  language  in  which  Stephen  escaped 
from  the  cold  silence  of  intellectual  revolt,  had  called 
up  before  Stephen's  mind  a  strange  vision.  The  two 
were  walking  slowly  towards  Davin's  rooms  through  the 
dark  narrow  streets  of  the  poorer  jews. 

—  A  thing  happened  to  myself,  Stevie,  last  autumn, 
coming  on  winter,  and  I  never  told  it  to  a  living  soul 
and  you  are  the  first  person  now  I  ever  told  it  to.  I 
disremember  if  it  was  October  or  November.  It  was 
October  because  it  was  before  I  came  up  here  to  join  the 
matriculation  class. 

Stephen  had  turned  his  smiling  eyes  towards  his 
friend's  face,  flattered  by  his  confidence  and  won  over 
to  sympathy  by  the  speaker's  simple  accent. 

—  I  was  away  all  that  day  from  my  own  place  over 
in  Buttevant  —  I  don't  know  if  you  know  where  that  is 
—  at  a  hurling  match  between  the  Croke  's  Own  Boys  and 
the  Fearless  Thurles  and  by  God,  Stevie,  that  was  the 
hard  fight.  My  first  cousin,  Fonsy  Davin,  was  stripped 
to  his  buff  that  day  minding  cool  for  the  Limericks  but 
he  was  up  with  the  forwards  half  the  time  and  shouting 
like  mad.  I  never  will  forget  that  day.  One  of  the 
Crokes  made  a  woeful  wipe  at  him  one  time  with  hi^ 

[211]' 


caman  and  I  declare  to  God  he  was  within  an  aim's 
ace  of  getting  it  at  the  side  of  his  temple.  Oh,  honest 
to  God,  if  the  crook  of  it  caught  him  that  time  he  was 
done  for. 

—  I  am  glad  he  escaped,  Stephen  had  said  with  a  laugh, 
but  surely  that's  not  the  strange  thing  that  happened 
you? 

—  Well,  I  suppose  that  doesn't  interest  you  but  least- 
ways there  was  such  noise  after  the  match  that  I  missed 
the  train  home  and  I  couldn't  get  any  kind  of  a  yoke 
to  give  me  a  lift  for,  as  luck  would  have  it,  there  was 
a  mass  meeting  that  same  day  over  in  Castletownroche 
and  all  the  cars  in  the  country  were  there.  So  there 
was  nothing  for  it  only  to  stay  the  night  or  to  foot  it 
out.  Well,  I  started  to  walk  and  on  I  went  and  it  was 
coming  on  night  when  I  got  into  the  Ballyhoura  Hills, 
that's  better  than  ten  miles  from  Kilmallock  and  there's 
a  long  lonely  road  after  that.  You  wouldn't  see  the  sign 
of  a  christian  house  along  the  road  or  hear  a  sound. 
It  was  pitch  dark  almost.  Once  or  twice  I  stopped  by 
the  way  under  a  bush  to  redden  my  pipe  and  only  for 
the  dew  was  thick  I  'd  have  stretched  out  there  and  slept. 
At  last,  after  a  bend  of  the  road,  I  spied  a  little  cottage 
with  a  light  in  the  window.  I  went  up  and  knocked  at 
the  door.  A  voice  asked  who  was  there  and  I  answered 
I  was  over  at  the  match  in  Buttevant  and  was  walking 
back  and  that  I'd  be  thankful  for  a  glass  of  water. 
After  a  while  a  young  woman  opened  the  door  and 
brought  me  out  a  big  mug  of  milk.  She  was  half  un- 
dressed as  if  she  was  going  to  bed  when  I  knocked 
and  she  had  her  hair  hanging;  and  I  thought  by  her 
figure  and  by  something  in  the  look  of  her  eyes  that  she 
must  be  carrying  a  child.     Sh^  kept  m^  in  talk  a  long 

[212]^ 


while  at  the  door  and  I  thought  it  strange  because  her 
breast  and  her  shoulders  were  bare.  She  asked  me  was 
I  tired  and  would  I  like  to  stop  the  night  there.  She 
said  she  was  all  alone  in  the  house  and  that  her  hus- 
band had  gone  that  morning  to  Queenstown  with  his 
sister  to  see  her  off.  And  all  the  time  she  was  talking, 
Stevie,  she  had  her  eyes  fixed  on  my  face  and  she  stood 
so  close  to  me  I  could  hear  her  breathing.  When  I 
handed  her  back  the  mug  at  last  she  took  my  hand  to 
draw  me  in  over  the  threshold  and  said :  ^  Come  in  and 
stay  the  night  here.  You've  no  call  to  he  frightened. 
There's  no  one  in  but  ourselves.  .  .  .'  I  didn't  go  in, 
Stevie.  I  thanked  her  and  went  on  my  way  again,  all  in 
a  fever.  At  the  first  bend  of  the  road  I  looked  back  and 
she  was  standing  at  the  door. 

The  last  words  of  Davin's  story  sang  in  his  memory 
and  the  figure  of  the  woman  in  the  story  stood  forth, 
reflected  in  other  figures  of  the  peasant  women  whom 
he  had  seen  standing  in  the  doorways  at  Clane  as  the 
college  cars  drove  by,  as  a  type  of  her  race  and  of  his 
own,  a  batlike  soul  waking  to  the  consciousness  of  itself 
in  darkness  and  secrecy  and  loneliness  and,  through  the 
eyes  and  voice  and  gesture  of  a  woman  without  guile, 
calling  the  stranger  to  her  bed. 

A  hand  was  laid  on  his  arm  and  a  young  voice  cried : 

—  Ah,  gentleman,  your  own  girl,  sir !  The  first  hand- 
sel today,  gentleman.  Buy  that  lovely  bunch.  Will 
you,  gentleman? 

The  blue  flowers  which  she  lifted  towards  him  and 
her  young  blue  eyes  seemed  to  him  at  that  instant 
images  of  guilelessness ;  and  he  halted  till  the  image  had 
vanished  and  he  saw  only  her  ragged  dress  and  damp 
coarse  hair  and  hoydenish  face. 

[213] 


—  Do,  gentleman !    Don't  forget  your  own  girl,  sir ! 

—  I  have  no  money,  said  Stephen. 

—  Buy  them  lovely  ones,  will  you,  sir  ?     Only  a  penny. 

—  Did  you  hear  what  I  said  ?  asked  Stephen,  bending 
towards  her.  I  told  you  I  had  no  money.  I  tell  you 
again  now. 

—  Well,  sure,  you  will  some  day,  sir,  please  God,  the 
girl  answered  after  an  instant. 

—  Possibly,  said  Stephen,  but  I  don't  think  it  likely. 
He  left  her  quickly,  fearing*  that  her  intimacy  might 

turn  to  gibing  and  wishing  to  be  out  of  the  way  before 
she  offered  her  ware  to  another,  a  tourist  from  England 
or  a  student  of  Trinity.  Grafton  Street,  along  which 
he  walked,  prolonged  that  moment  of  discouraged  pov- 
erty. In  the  roadway  at  the  head  of  the  street  a  slab 
was  set  to  the  memory  of  Wolfe  Tone  and  he  remem- 
bered having  been  present  with  his  father  at  its  laying. 
He  remembered  with  bitterness  that  scene  of  tawdry 
tribute.  There  were  four  French  delegates  in  a  brake 
and  one,  a  plump  smiling  young  man,  held,  wedged  on 
a  stick,  a  card  on  which  were  printed  the  words :  Vive 
rirlande! 

But  the  trees  in  Stephen's  Green  were  fragrant  of 
rain  and  the  rainsodden  earth  gave  forth  its  mortal 
odour,  a  faint  incense  rising  upward  through  the  mould 
from  many  hearts.  The  soul  of  the  gallant  venal  city 
which  his  elders  had  told  him  of  had  shrunk  with  time 
to  a  faint  mortal  odour  rising  from  the  earth  and  he 
knew  that  in  a  moment  when  he  entered  the  sombre 
college  he  would  be  conscious  of  a  corruption  other  than 
that  of  Buck  Egan  and  Burnchapel  Whaley. 

It  was  too  late  to  go  upstairs  to  the  French  class.  He 
crossed  the  hall  and  took  the  corridor  to  the  left  which 

[214] 


led  to  the  physics  theatre.  The  corridor  was  dark  and 
silent  but  not  unwatchful.  Why  did  he  feel  that  it  was 
not  unwatchful?  Was  it  because  he  had  heard  that  in 
Buck  Whaley's  time  there  was  a  secret  staircase  there? 
Or  was  the  Jesuit  house  extra-territorial  and  was  he  walk- 
ing among  aliens  ?  The  Ireland  of  Tone  and  of  Parnell 
seemed  to  have  receded  in  space. 

He  opened  the  door  of  the  theatre  and  halted  in  the 
chilly  grey  light  that  struggled  through  the  dusty  win- 
dows. A  figure  was  crouching  before  the  large  grate 
and  by  its  leanness  and  greyness  he  knew  that  it  was 
the  dean  of  studies  lighting  the  fire.  Stephen  closed  the 
door  quietly  and  approached  the  fireplace. 

—  Good  morning,  sir !     Can  I  help  you  ?  — 
The  priest  looked  up  quickly  and  said : 

—  One  moment  now,  Mr  Dedalus,  and  you  will  see. 
There  is  an  art  in  lighting  a  fire.  We  have  the  liberal 
arts  and  we  have  the  useful  arts.  This  is  one  of  the 
useful  arts. — 

—  I  will  try  to  learn  it  —  said  Stephen. 

—  Not  too  much  coal  —  said  the  dean  —  working 
briskly  at  his  task  —  that  is  one  of  the  secrets. — 

He  produced  four  candle  butts  from  the  side  pockets 
of  his  soutane  and  placed  them  deftly  among  the  coals 
and  twisted  papers.  Stephen  watched  him  in  silence. 
Kneeling  thus  on  the  flagstone  to  kindle  the  fire  and 
busied  with  the  disposition  of  his  wisps  of  paper  and 
candle  butts  he  seemed  more  than  ever  a  humble  server 
making  ready  the  place  of  sacrifice  in  an  empty  temple, 
a  levite  of  the  Lord.  Like  a  levite's  robe  of  plain  linen 
the  faded  worn  soutane  draped  the  kneeling  figure  of 
one  whom  the  canonicals  or  the  bellybordered  ephod 
would  irk  and  trouble.    His  very  body  had  waxed  old 

[215] 


in  lowly  service  of  the  Lord  —  in  tending  the  fire  upon 
the  altar,  in  bearing  tidings  secretly,  in  waiting  upon 
worldlings,  in  striking  swiftly  when  bidden  —  and  yet 
had  remained  ungraced  by  aught  of  saintly  or  of  prelatic 
beauty.  Nay,  his  very  soul  had  waxed  old  in  that  serv- 
ice without  growing  towards  light  and  beauty  or  spread- 
ing abroad  a  sweet  odour  of  her  sanctity  —  a  mortified 
will  no  more  responsive  to  the  thrill  of  its  obedience  than 
was  to  the  thrill  of  love  or  combat  his  ageing  body,  spare 
and  sinewy,  greyed  with  a  silver-pointed  down. 

The  dean  rested  back  on  his  hunkers  and  watched  the 
sticks  catch.     Stephen,  to  fill  the  silence,  said : 

—  I  am  sure  I  could  not  light  a  fire. — 

—  You  are  an  artist,  are  you  not,  Mr  Dedalus  ?  —  said 
the  dean,  glancing  up  and  blinking  his  pale  eyes. —  The 
object  of  the  artist  is  the  creation  of  the  beautiful.  "What 
the  beautiful  is  is  another  question. — 

He  rubbed  his  hands  slowly  and  drily  over  the  diffi- 
culty. 

—  Can  you  solve  that  question  now  ?  —  he  asked. 

—  Aquinas  —  answered  Stephen  —  says  pulcra  sunt 
quoe  visa  placent. — 

—  This  fire  before  us  —  said  the  dean  —  will  be  pleas- 
ing to  the  eye.    Will  it  therefore  be  beautiful  ?  — 

—  In  so  far  as  it  is  apprehended  by  the  sight,  which 
I  suppose  means  here  esthetic  intellection,  it  will  be 
beautiful.  But  Aquinas  also  says  Bonum  est  in  quod 
tendit  appetitus.  In  so  far  as  it  satisfies  the  animal 
craving  for  warmth  fire  is  a  good.  In  hell,  however,  it  is 
an  evil. — 

—  Quite  so  —  said  the  dean  —  you  have  certainly  hit 
the  nail  on  the  head. — 

[216] 


He  rose  nimbly  and  went  towards  the  door,  set  it 
ajar  and  said : 

—  A  draught  is  said  to  be  a  help  in  these  matters. — 
As  he  came  back  to  the  hearth,  limping  slightly  but 

with  a  brisk  step,  Stephen  saw  the  silent  soul  of  a  Jesuit 
look  out  at  him  from  the  pale  loveless  eyes.  Like  Igna- 
tius he  was  lame  but  in  his  eyes  burned  no  spark  of  Ig- 
natius' enthusiasm.  Even  the  legendary  craft  of  the 
company,  a  craft  subtler  and  more  secret  than  its  fabled 
books  of  secret  subtle  wisdom,  had  not  fired  his  soul 
with  the  energy  of  apostleship.  It  seemed  as  if  he  used 
the  shifts  and  lore  and  cunning  of  the  world,  as  bidden 
to  do,  for  the  greater  glory  of  God,  without  joy 
in  their  handling  or  hatred  of  that  in  them  which  was 
evil  but  turning  them,  with  a  firm  gesture  of  obedience, 
back  upon  themselves:  and  for  all  this  silent  service  it 
seemed  as  if  he  loved  not  at  all  the  master  and  little, 
if  at  all,  the  ends  he  served.  Similiter  atque  senis  bac- 
ulus,  he  was,  as  the  founder  would  have  had  him,  like  a 
staff  in  an  old  man's  hand,  to  be  leaned  on  in  the  road 
at  nightfall  or  in  stress  of  weather,  to  lie  with  a  lady's 
nosegay  on  a  garden  seat,  to  be  raised  in  menace. 

The  dean  returned  to  the  hearth  and  began  to  stroke 
his  chin. 

—  When  may  we  expect  to  have  something  from  you 
on  the  esthetic  question  ?  —  he  asked. 

—  From  me!  —  said  Stephen  in  astonishment. —  I 
stumble  on  an  idea  once  a  fortnight  if  I  am  lucky. — 

—  These  questions  are  very  profound,  Mr  Dedalus  — 
said  the  dean. —  It  is  like  looking  down  from  the  cliffs 
of  Moher  into  the  depths.  Many  go  down  into  the 
depths  and  never  come  up.    Only  the  trained  diver  can 

[217] 


go  down  into  those  depths  and  explore  them  and  come 
to  the  surface  again. — 

—  If  you  mean  speculation,  sir  —  said  Stephen  —  I 
also  am  sure  that  there  is  no  such  thing  as  free  thinking 
inasmuch  as  all  thinking  must  be  bound  by  its  own 
laws. — 

—  Ha!  — 

—  For  my  purpose  I  can  work  on  at  present  by  the 
light  of  one  or  two  ideas  of  Aristotle  and  Aquinas. — 

—  I  see.    I  quite  see  your  point. — 

—  I  need  them  only  for  my  own  use  and  guidance 
until  I  have  done  something  for  myself  by  their  light. 
If  the  lamp  smokes  or  smells  I  shall  try  to  trim  it.  If 
it  does  not  give  light  enough  I  shall  sell  it  and  buy 
another. — 

—  Epictetus  also  had  a  lamp  —  said  the  dean  —  which 
was  sold  for  a  fancy  price  after  his  death.  It  was  the 
lamp  he  wrote  his  philosophical  dissertations  by.  You 
know  Epictetus  ?  — 

—  An  old  gentleman  —  said  Stephen  coarsely  —  who 
said  that  the  soul  is  very  like  a  bucketful  of  water. — 

—  He  tells  us  in  his  homely  way  —  the  dean  went  on  — 
that  he  put  an  iron  lamp  before  a  statue  of  one  of  the 
gods  and  that  a  thief  stole  the  lamp.  What  did  the 
philosopher  do?  He  reflected  that  it  was  in  the  char- 
acter of  a  thief  to  steal  and  determined  to  buy  an  earthen 
lamp  next  day  instead  of  the  iron  lamp. — 

A  smell  of  molten  tallow  came  up  from  the  dean's 
candle  butts  and  fused  itself  in  Stephen's  consciousness 
with  the  jingle  of  the  words,  bucket  and  lamp  and  lamp 
and  bucket.  The  priest's  voice,  too,  had  a  hard  jingling 
tone.  Stephen's  mind  halted  by  instinct,  checked  by 
the  strange  tone  and  the  imagery  and  by  the  priest's 

[218] 


face  which  seemed  like  an  unlit  lamp  or  a  reflector 
hung  in  a  false  focus.  What  lay  behind  it  or  within  it  ? 
A  dull  torpor  of  the  soul  or  the  dullness  of  the  thunder- 
cloud, charged  with  intellection  and  capable  of  the  gloom 
of  God? 

—  I  meant  a  different  kind  of  lamp,  sir  —  said  Stephen. 

—  Undoubtedly  —  said  the  dean. 

— -One  difficulty  —  said  Stephen  —  in  esthetic  discus- 
sion is  to  know  whether  words  are  being  used  according 
to  the  literary  tradition  or  according  to  the  tradition  of 
the  marketplace.  I  remember  a  sentence  of  Newman's, 
in  which  he  says  of  the  Blessed  Virgin  that  she  was  de- 
tained in  the  full  company  of  the  saints.  The  use  of 
the  word  in  the  marketplace  is  quite  different.  1  hope 
I  am  not  detaining  you. — 

—  Not  in  the  least  —  said  the  dean  politely. 

—  No,  no  —  said  Stephen,  smiling  —  I  mean  .  .  . — 

—  Yes,  yes :  I  see  —  said  the  dean  quickly  —  I  quite 
catch  the  point :  detain, — 

He  thrust  forward  his  under  jaw  and  uttered  a  dry 
short  cough. 

—  To  return  to  the  lamp  —  he  said  —  the  feeding  of  it 
is  also  a  nice  problem.  You  must  choose  the  pure  oil 
and  you  must  be  careful  when  you  pour  it  in  not  to 
overflow  it,  not  to  pour  in  more  than  the  funnel  can 
hold.— 

—  What  funnel?  —  asked  Stephen. 

—  The  funnel  through  which  you  pour  the  oil  into 
your  lamp. — 

—  That?  —  said  Stephen. —  Is  that  called  a  funnel? 
Is  it  not  a  tundish  ?  — 

—  What  is  a  tundish  ?  — 

—  That.     The  .  .  .  the  funnel.— 

[219]  /      : 


—  Is  that  called  a  tundish  in  Ireland?  —  asked  the 
dean. —  I  never  heard  the  word  in  my  life. — 

—  It  is  called  a  tundish  in  Lower  Drumcondra  —  said 
Stephen,  laughing  —  where  they  speak  the  best  Eng- 
lish.— 

— 'A  tundish  —  said  the  dean  reflectively. —  That  is 
a  most  interesting  word.  I  must  look  that  word  up. 
Upon  my  word  I  must. — 

His  courtesy  of  manner  rang  a  little  false,  and  Stephen 
looked  at  the  English  convert  with  the  same  eyes  as 
the  elder  brother  in  the  parable  may  have  turned  on 
the  prodigal.  A  humble  follower  in  the  wake  of  clamor- 
ous conversions,  a  poor  Englishman  in  Ireland,  he  seemed 
to  have  entered  on  the  stage  of  Jesuit  history  when 
that  strange  play  of  intrigue  and  suffering  and  envy  and 
struggle  and  indignity  had  been  all  but  given  through  — 
a  late  comer,  a  tardy  spirit.  From  what  had  he  set  out  ? 
Perhaps  he  had  been  born  and  bred  among  serious  dis- 
senters, seeing  salvation  in  Jesus  only  and  abhoring  the 
vain  pomps  of  the  establishment.  Had  he  felt  the  need 
of  an  implicit  faith  amid  the  welter  of  sectarianism  and 
the  jargon  of  its  turbulent  schisms,  six  principal  men, 
peculiar  people,  seed  and  snake  baptists,  supralapsarian 
dogmatists  ?  Had  he  found  the  true  church  all  of  a  sud- 
den in  winding  up  to  the  end  like  a  reel  of  cotton  some 
finespun  line  of  reasoning  upon  insufl3ation  on  the  im- 
position of  hands  or  the  procession  of  the  Holy  Ghost? 
Or  had  Lord  Christ  touched  him  and  bidden  him  follow, 
like  that  disciple  who  had  sat  at  the  receipt  of  custom,  as 
he  sat  by  the  door  of  some  zinc  roofed  chapel,  yawning 
and  telling  over  his  church  pence  ? 

The  dean  repeated  the  word  yet  again. 

—  Tundish !    Well  now,  that  is  interesting !  — 

[220] 


—  The  question  you  asked  me  a  moment  ago  seems  to 
me  more  interesting.  What  is  that  beauty  which  the 
artist  struggles  to  express  from  lumps  of  earth  —  said 
Stephen  coldly. 

The  little  word  seemed  to  have  turned  a  rapier  point 
of  his  sensitiveness  against  this  courteous  and  vigilant 
foe.  He  felt  with  a  smart  of  dejection  that  the  man 
to  whom  he  was  speaking  was  a  countryman  of  Ben 
Jonson.     He  thought: 

—  The  language  in  which  we  are  speaking  is  his  before 
it  is  mine.  How  different  are  the  words  homej  Christy 
ale,  master,  on  his  lips  and  on  mine!  I  cannot  speak 
or  write  these  words  without  unrest  of  spirit.  His 
language,  so  familiar  and  so  foreign,  will  always  be  for 
me  an  acquired  speech.  I  have  not  made  or  accepted 
its  words.  My  voice  holds  them  at  bay.  My  soul  frets 
in  the  shadow  of  his  language. — 

—  And  to  distinguish  between  the  beautiful  and  the 
sublime  —  the  dean  added  —  to  distinguish  between 
moral  beauty  and  material  beauty.  And  to  inquire 
what  kind  of  beauty  is  proper  to  each  of  the  various 
arts.  These  are  some  interesting  points  we  might  take 
up.— 

Stephen,  disheartened  suddenly  by  the  dean's  firm 
dry  tone,  was  silent:  and  through  the  silence  a  distant 
noise  of  many  boots  and  confused  voices  came  up  the 
staircase. 

—  In  pursuing  these  speculations  —  said  the  dean 
conclusively  —  there  is,  however,  the  danger  of  perishing 
of  inanition.  First  you  must  take  your  degree.  Set 
that  before  you  as  your  first  aim.  Then,  little  by  little, 
you  will  see  your  way.  I  mean  in  every  sense,  your 
way  in  life  and  in  thinking.     It  may  be  uphill  pedalling 

[221] 


at  first.     Take  Mr  Moonan.    He  was  a  long  time  before 
he  got  to  the  top.     But  he  got  there. — 

—  I  may  not  have  his  talent  —  said  Stephen  quietly. 

—  You  never  know  —  said  the  dean  brightly. —  We 
never  can  say  what  is  in  us.  I  most  certainly  should 
not  be  despondent.    Per  aspera  ad  astra, — 

He  left  the  hearth  quickly  and  went  towards  the 
landing  to  oversee  the  arrival  of  the  first  arts'  class. 

Leaning  against  the  fireplace  Stephen  heard  him  greet 
briskly  and  impartially  every  student  of  the  class  and 
could  almost  see  the  frank  smiles  of  the  coarser  students. 
A  desolating  pity  began  to  fall  like  dew  upon  his  easily 
embittered  heart  for  this  faithful  servingman  of  the 
knightly  Loyola,  for  this  half  brother  of  the  clergy, 
more  venal  than  they  in  speech,  more  steadfast  of  soul 
than  they,  one  whom  he  would  never  call  his  ghostly 
father :  and  he  thought  how  this  man  and  his  companions 
had  earned  the  name  of  worldlings  at  the  hands  not  of 
the  unworldly  only  but  of  the  worldly  also  for  having 
pleaded,  during  all  their  history,  at  the  bar  of  God's 
justice  for  the  souls  of  the  lax  and  the  lukewarm  and  the 
prudent. 

The  entry  of  the  professor  was  signalled  by  a  few 
rounds  of  Kentish  fire  from  the  heavy  boots  of  those 
students  who  sat  on  the  highest  tier  of  the  gloomy 
theatre  under  the  grey  cobwebbed  windows.  The  call- 
ing of  the  roll  began,  and  the  responses  to  the  names 
were  given  out  in  all  tones  until  the  name  of  Peter  Byrne 
was  reached. 

—  Here !  — 

A  deep  base  note  in  response  came  from  the  upper 
tier,  followed  by  coughs  of  protest  along  the  other 
benches. 

[222] 


The  professor  paused  in  his  reading  and  called  the 
next  name : 

—  Cranly !  — 
No  answer. 

—  Mr  Cranly !  — 

A  smile  flew  across  Stephen's  face  as  he  thought  of  his 
friend's  studies. 

—  Try  Leopardstown !  —  said  a  voice  from  the  bench 
behind. 

Stephen  glanced  up  quickly  but  Moynihan's  snoutish 
face,  outlined  on  the  grey  light,  was  impassive.  A 
formula  was  given  out.  Amid  the  rustling  of  the  note- 
books Stephen  turned  back  again  and  said : 

—  Give  me  some  paper  for  God's  sake. — 

—  Are  you  as  bad  as  that  ?  —  asked  Moynihan  with  a 
broad  grin. 

He  tore  a  sheet  from  his  scribbler  and  passed  it  down, 
whispering : 

—  In  case  of  necessity  any  layman  or  woman  can  do 
it.— 

The  formula  which  he  wrote  obediently  on  the  sheet 
of  paper,  the  coiling  and  uncoiling  calculations  of  the 
professor,  the  spectrelike  S3niibols  of  force  and  velocity 
fascinated  and  jaded  Stephen's  mind.  He  had  heard 
some  say  that  the  old  professor  was  an  atheist  free- 
mason. Oh,  the  grey  dull  day!  It  seemed  a  limbo  of 
painless  patient  consciousness  through  which  souls  of 
mathematicians  might  wander,  projecting  long  slender 
fabrics  from  plane  to  plane  of  ever  rarer  and  paler  twi- 
light, radiating  swift  eddies  to  the  last  verges  of  a  uni- 
verse ever  vaster,  farther  and  more  impalpable. 

—  So  we  must  distinguish  between  elliptical  and 
ellipsoidal.    Perhaps  some  of  you  gentlemen  may  be 

[223] 


familiar  with  the  works  of  Mr  W.  S.  Gilbert.  In  one  of 
his  songs  he  speaks  of  the  billiard  sharp  who  is  con- 
demned to  play : 

On  a  cloth  untrue 

With  a  twisted  cue 

And  elliptical  billiard  halls. 

—  He  means  a  ball  having  the  form  of  the  ellipsoid 
of  the  principal  axes  of  which  I  spoke  a  moment  ago. — 

Moynihan  leaned  down  towards  Stephen's  ear  and 
murmured:  —  What  price  ellipsoidal  balls!  chase  me, 
ladies,  I'm  in  the  cavalry!  — 

His  fellow  student's  rude  humour  ran  like  a  gust 
through  the  cloister  of  Stephen's  mind,  shaking  into 
gay  life  limp  priestly  vestments  that  hung  upon  the 
walls,  setting  them  to  sway  and  caper  in  a  sabbath  of 
misrule.  The  forms  of  the  community  emerged  from 
the  gust  blown  vestments,  the  dean  of  studies,  the  portly 
florid  bursar  with  his  cap  of  grey  hair,  the  president, 
the  little  priest  with  feathery  hair  who  wrote  devout 
verses,  the  squat  peasant  form  of  the  professor  of  eco- 
nomics, the  tall  form  of  the  young  professor  of  mental 
science  discussing  on  the  landing  a  case  of  conscience 
with  his  class  like  a  giraffe  cropping  high  leafage  among 
a  herd  of  antelopes,  the  grave  troubled  prefect  of  the 
sodality,  the  plump  round  headed  professor  of  Italian 
with  his  rogue's  eyes.  They  came  ambling  and  stum- 
bling, tumbling  and  capering,  kilting  their  gowns  for  leap 
frog,  holding  one  another  back,  shaken  with  deep  false 
laughter,  smacking  one  another  behind  and  laugh- 
ing at  their  rude  malice,  calling  to  one  another  by 
familiar  nicknames,  protesting  with  sudden  dignity  at 

[224] 


some  rough  usage,  whispering  two  and  two  behind  their 
hands. 

The  professor  had  gone  to  the  glass  cases  on  the  side- 
wall,  from  a  shelf  of  which  he  took  down  a  set  of  coils, 
blew  away  the  dust  from  many  points  and,  bearing  it 
carefully  to  the  table,  held  a  finger  on  it  while  he  pro- 
ceeded with  his  lecture.  He  explained  that  the  wires 
in  modern  coils  were  of  a  compound  called  platinoid 
lately  discovered  by  F.  W.  Martino. 

He  spoke  clearly  the  initials  and  surname  of  the  dis- 
coverer.    Moynihan  whispered  from  behind : 

—  Good  old  Fresh  Water  Martin !  — 

—  Ask  him  —  Stephen  whispered  back  with  weary 
humour  —  if  he  wants  a  subject  for  electrocution.  He 
can  have  me. — 

Moynihan,  seeing  the  professor  bend  over  the  coils, 
rose  in  his  bench  and,  clacking  noiselessly  the  fingers 
of  his  right  hand,  began  to  call  with  the  voice  of  a 
slobbering  urchin :  —  Please,  teacher !  This  boy  is  after 
saying  a  bad  word,  teacher. — 

—  Platinoid  —  the  professor  said  solemnly  —  is  pre- 
ferred to  German  silver  because  it  has  a  lower  coefficient 
of  resistance  by  changes  of  temperature.  The  platinoid 
wire  is  insulated  and  the  covering  of  silk  that  insulates 
it  is  wound  on  the  ebonite  bobbins  just  where  my 
finger  is.  If  it  were  wound  single  an  extra  current  would 
be  induced  in  the  coils.  The  bobbins  are  saturated  in 
hot  parafifin-wax  .  .  . — 

A  sharp  Ulster  voice  said  from  the  bench  below 
Stephen : 

—  Are  we  likely  to  be  asked  questions  on  applied 
science  ?  — 

The  professor  began  to  juggle  gravely  with  the  terms 
[225] 


pure  science  and  applied  science.  A  heavybuilt  student, 
wearing  gold  spectacles,  stared  with  some  wonder  at  the 
questioner.  Moynihan  murmured  from  behind  in  his 
natural  voice : 

—  Isn't  MacAlister  a  devil  for  his  pound  of  flesh?  — 
Stephen  looked  down  coldly  on  the  oblong  skull  be- 
neath him  overgrown  with  tangled  twinecoloured  hair. 
The  voice,  the  accent,  the  mind  of  the  questioner  ofifended 
him  and  he  allowed  the  offence  to  carry  him  towards  wil- 
ful unkindness,  bidding  his  mind  think  that  the  student's 
father  would  have  done  better  had  he  sent  his  son  to 
Belfast  to  study  and  have  saved  something  on  the  train 
fare  by  so  doing. 

The  oblong  skull  beneath  did  not  turn  to  meet  this 
shaft  of  thought  and  yet  the  shaft  came  back  to  its 
bowstring:  for  he  saw  in  a  moment  the  student's  whey 
pale  face. 

—  That  thought  is  not  mine  —  he  said  to  himself 
quickly. —  It  came  from  the  comic  Irishman  in  the  bench 
behind.  Patience.  Can  you  say  with  certitude  by  whom 
the  soul  of  your  race  was  bartered  and  its  elect  be- 
trayed —  by  the  questioner  or  by  the  mocker?  Patience. 
Remember  Epictetus.  It  is  probably  in  his  character 
to  ask  such  a  question  at  such  a  moment  in  such  a  tone 
and  to  pronounce  the  word  science  as  a  monosyllable. — 

The  droning  voice  of  the  professor  continued  to  wind 
itself  slowly  round  and  round  the  coils  it  spoke  of, 
doubling,  trebling,  quadrupling  its  somnolent  energy  as 
the  coil  multiplied  its  ohms  of  resistance. 

Moynihan 's  voice  called  from  behind  in  echo  to  a  dis- 
tant bell : 

—  Closing  time,  gents !  — 

The  entrance  hall  was  crowded  and  loud  with  talk. 
[226]| 


On  a  table  near  the  door  were  two  photographs  in  frames 
and  between  them  a  long  roll  of  paper  bearing  an  irregu- 
lar tail  of  signatures.  MaeCann  went  briskly  to  and  fro 
among  the  students,  talking  rapidly,  answering  rebuffs 
and  leading  one  after  another  to  the  table.  In  the  inner 
hall  the  dean  of  studies  stood  talking  to  a  young  pro- 
fessor, stroking  his  chin  gravely  and  nodding  his  head. 

Stephen,  checked  by  the  crowd  at  the  door,  halted 
irresolutely.  From  under  the  wide  falling  leaf  of  a  soft 
hat  Cranly  's  dark  eyes  were  watching  him. 

—  Have  you  signed?  —  Stephen  asked. 

Cranly  closed  his  long  thinlipped  mouth,  communed 
with  himself  an  instant  and  answered : 

—  Ego  haieo. — 

—  What  is  it  for? — 

—  Quod?  — 

—  What  is  it  for?  — 

Cranly  turned  his  pale  face  to  Stephen  and  said 
blandly  and  bitterly : 

—  Per  pax  universalis. — 

Stephen  pointed  to  the  Tsar's  photograph  and  said: 

—  He  has  the  face  of  a  besotted  Christ. — 

The  scorn  and  anger  in  his  voice  brought  Cranly 's 
eyes  back  from  a  calm  survey  of  the  walls  of  the  hall. 

—  Are  you  annoyed  ?  —  he  asked. 

—  No  —  answered  Stephen. 

—  Are  you  in  bad  humour  ?  — 

—  No.— 

—  Credo  ut  vos  sanguinarius  mendax  estis  —  said 
Cranly  —  quia  fades  vostra  monstrat  ut  vos  in  damno 
malo  humore  estis. — 

Moynihan,  on  his  way  to  the  table,  said  in  Stephen's 
ear: 

[227] 


—  MacCann  is  in  tiptop  form.  Eeady  to  shed  the  last 
drop.  Brand  new  world.  No  stimulants  and  votes  for 
the  bitches. — 

Stephen  smiled  at  the  manner  of  this  confidence  and, 
when  Moynihan  had  passed,  turned  again  to  meet 
Cranly's  eyes. 

—  Perhaps  you  can  tell  me  —  he  said  —  why  he  pours 
his  soul  so  freely  into  my  ear.     Can  you  ?  — 

A  dull  scowl  appeared  on  Cranly's  forehead.  He 
stared  at  the  table  where  Moynihan  had  bent  to  write 
his  name  on  the  roll ;  and  then  said  flatly : 

—  A  sugar !  — 

—  Quis  est  in  malo  humore  —  said  Stephen  —  ego  aut 
vosf  — 

Cranly  did  not  take  up  the  taunt.  He  brooded  sourly 
on  his  judgment  and  repeated  with  the  same  flat  force : 

—  A  flaming  bloody  sugar,  that's  what  he  is !  — 

It  was  his  epitaph  for  all  dead  friendships  and  Stephen 
wondered  whether  it  would  ever  be  spoken  in  the  same 
tone  over  his  memory.  The  heavy  lumpish  phrase  sank 
slowly  out  of  hearing  like  a  stone  through  a  quagmire. 
Stephen  saw  it  sink  as  he  had  seen  many  another,  feel- 
ing its  heaviness  depress  his  heart.  Cranly 's  speech,  un- 
like that  of  Davin,  had  neither  rare  phrases  of  Eliza- 
bethan English  nor  quaintly  turned  versions  of  Irish 
idioms.  Its  drawl  was  an  echo  of  the  quays  of  Dublin 
given  back  by  a  bleak  decaying  seaport,  its  energy  an 
echo  of  the  sacred  eloquence  of  Dublin  given  back  flatly 
by  a  Wicklow  pulpit. 

The  heavy  scowl  faded  from  Cranly 's  face  as  MacCann 
marched  briskly  towards  them  from  the  other  side  of 
the  hall. 

—  Here  you  are !  —  said  MacCann  cheerily. 

[228] 


—  Here  I  am !  —  said  Stephen. 

—  Late  as  usual.  Can  you  not  combine  the  progres- 
sive tendency  with  a  respect  for  punctuality  ?  — 

—  That  question  is  out  of  order  —  said  Stephen. — 
Next  business. — 

His  smiling  eyes  were  fixed  on  a  silver  wrapped  tablet 
of  milk  chocolate  which  peeped  out  of  the  propagandist's 
breast-pocket.  A  little  ring  of  listeners  closed  round  to 
hear  the  war  of  wits.  A  lean  student  with  olive  skin 
and  lank  black  hair  thrust  his  face  between  the  two, 
glancing  from  one  to  the  other  at  each  phrase  and  seem- 
ing to  try  to  catch  each  flying  phrase  in  his  open  moist 
mouth.  Cranly  took  a  small  grey  handball  from  his 
pocket  and  began  to  examine  it  closely,  turning  it  over 
and  over. 

—  Next  business  ?  —  said  MacCann. —  Hom !  — 

He  gave  a  loud  cough  of  laughter,  smiled  broadly,  and 
tugged  twice  at  the  strawcoloured  goatee  which  hung 
from  his  blunt  chin. 

—  The  next  business  is  to  sign  the  testimonial. — 

—  Will  you  pay  me  anything  if  I  sign  ?  —  asked 
Stephen. 

— '  I  thought  you  were  an  idealist  —  said  MacCann. 
The  gipsylike  student  looked  about  him  and  addressed 
the  onlookers  in  an  indistinct  bleating  voice. 

—  By  hell,  that 's  a  queer  notion.  I  consider  that  no- 
tion to  be  a  mercenary  notion. — 

His  voice  faded  into  silence.  No  heed  was  paid  to 
his  words.  He  turned  his  olive  face,  equine  in  expres- 
sion, towards  Stephen,  inviting  him  to  speak  again. 

MacCann  began  to  speak  with  fluent  energy  of  the 
Tsar's  rescript,  of  Stead,  of  general  disarmament,  arbi- 
tration in  cases  of  international  disputes,  of  the  signs  of 

[229] 


the  times,  of  the  new  humanity  and  the  new  gospel  of 
life  which  would  make  it  the  business  of  the  community 
to  secure  as  cheaply  as  possible  the  greatest  possible  hap- 
piness of  the  greatest  possible  number. 

The  gipsy  student  responded  to  the  close  of  the  period 
by  crying : 

—  Three  cheers  for  universal  brotherhood!  — 

—  Go  on,  Temple  —  said  a  stout  ruddy  student  near 
him. —  I'll  stand  you  a  pint  after. — 

—  I'm  a  believer  in  universal  brotherhood  —  said 
Temple,  glancing  about  him  out  of  his  dark,  oval  eyes. — 
Marx  is  only  a  bloody  cod. — 

Cranly  gripped  his  arm  tightly  to  check  his  tongue, 
smiling  uneasily,  and  repeated : 

—  Easy,  easy,  easy !  — 

Temple  struggled  to  free  his  arm  but  continued,  his 
mouth  flecked  by  a  thin  foam : 

—  Socialism  was  founded  by  an  Irishman  and  the 
first  man  in  Europe  who  preached  the  freedom  of  thought 
was  Collins.  Two  hundred  years  ago.  He  denounced 
priestcraft,  the  philosopher  of  Middlesex.  Three  cheers 
for  John  Anthony  Collins !  — 

A  thin  voice  from  the  verge  of  the  ring  replied : 

—  Pip !  pip !  — 

Moynihan  murmured  beside  Stephen's  ear: 

—  And  what  about  John  Anthony's  poor  little  sister : 

Lottie  Collins  lost  her  drawers; 
WonH  you  kindly  lend  her  yours? 

Stephen  laughed  and  Moynihan,  pleased  with  the  re- 
sult, murmured  again: 

—  We'll  have  five  bob  each  way  on  John  Anthony  Col- 
lins.— 

[230] 


—  I  am  waiting  for  your  answer  —  said  MacCann 
briefly. 

—  The  affair  doesn't  interest  me  in  the  least  —  said 
Stephen  wearily. — You  know  that  well.  Why  do  you 
make  a  scene  about  it  ?  — 

—  Good!  —  said  MacCann,  smacking  his  lips. —  You 
are  a  reactionary,  then  ?  — 

—  Do  you  think  you  impress  me  —  Stephen  asked  — 
when  you  flourish  your  wooden  sword  ?  — 

—  Metaphors !  —  said  MacCann  bluntly. —  Come  to 
facts. — 

Stephen  blushed  and  turned  aside.  MacCann  stood  his 
ground  and  said  with  hostile  humour : 

—  Minor  poets,  I  suppose,  are  above  such  trivial  ques- 
tions as  the  question  of  universal  peace.— 

Cranly  raised  his  head  and  held  the  handball  between 
the  two  students  by  way  of  a  peaceoffering,  saying : 

—  Pax  super  totum  sanguinarium  globum. — 
Stephen,  moving  away  the  bystanders,  jerked  his  shoul- 
der angrily  in  the  direction  of  the  Tsar's  image,  say- 
ing: 

—  Keep  your  icon.  If  you  must  have  a  Jesus,  let  us 
have  a  legitimate  Jesus. — 

—  By  hell,  that's  a  good  one !  —  said  the  gipsy  student 
to  those  about  him  —  that's  a  fine  expression.  I  like  that 
expression  immensely. — 

He  gulped  down  the  spittle  in  his  throat  as  if  he  were 
gulping  down  the  phrase  and,  fumbling  at  the  peak  of 
his  tweed  cap,  turned  to  Stephen,  saying : 

—  Excuse  me,  sir,  what  do  you  mean  by  that  expres- 
sion you  uttered  just  now  ?  — 

Feeling  himself  jostled  by  the  students  near  him,  he 
said  to  them : 

[231] 


—  I  am  curious  to  know  now  what  he  meant  by  that 
expression. — 

He  turned  again  to  Stephen  and  said  in  a  whisper : 

—  Do  you  believe  in  Jesus?  I  believe  in  man.  Of 
course,  I  don't  know  if  you  believe  in  man.  I  admire 
you,  sir.  I  admire  the  mind  of  man  independent  of  all 
religions.  Is  that  your  opinion  about  the  mind  of 
Jesus  ?  — 

—  Go  on,  Temple  —  said  the  stout  ruddy  student,  re- 
turning, as  was  his  wont,  to  his  first  idea  —  that  pint  is 
waiting  for  you. — 

—  He  thinks  I'm  an  imbecile  —  Temple  explained  to 
Stephen  —  because  I'm  a  believer  in  the  power  of 
mind. — 

Cranly  linked  his  arms  into  those  of  Stephen  and  his 
admirer  and  said : 

—  Nos  ad  manum  hallum  jocaiimus, — 

Stephen,  in  the  act  of  being  led  away,  caught  sight  of 
MacGann's  flushed  bluntfeatured  face. 

—  My  signature  is  of  no  account  —  he  said  politely. — 
You  are  right  to  go  your  way.    Leave  me  to  go  mine. — 

—  Dedalus  —  said  MacGann  crisply  —  I  believe  you're 
a  good  fellow  but  you  have  yet  to  learn  the  dignity  of 
altruism  and  the  responsibility  of  the  human  indi- 
vidual.— 

A  voice  said: 

—  Intellectual  crankery  is  better  out  of  this  movement 
than  in  it. — 

Stephen,  recognizing  the  harsh  tone  of  MacAlister's 
voice,  did  not  turn  in  the  direction  of  the  voice.  Granly 
pushed  solemnly  through  the  throng  of  students,  linking 
Stephen  and  Temple  like  a  celebrant  attended  by  his 
ministers  on  his  way  to  the  altar. 

[232] 


Temple  bent  eagerly  across  Cranly's  breast  and  said: 

—  Did  you  hear  MacAlister  what  he  said  ?  That  youth 
is  jealous  of  you.  Did  you  see  that?  I  bet  Cranly 
didn't  see  that.     By  hell,  I  saw  that  at  once. — 

As  they  crossed  the  inner  hall  the  dean  of  studies  was 
in  the  act  of  escaping  from  the  student  with  whom  he 
had  been  conversing.  He  stood  at  the  foot  of  the  stair- 
case, a  foot  on  the  lowest  step,  his  threadbare  soutane 
gathered  about  him  for  the  ascent  with  womanish  care, 
nodding  his  head  often  and  repeating : 

—  Not  a  doubt  of  it,  Mr  Hackett !  Very  fine !  Not  a 
doubt  of  it !  — 

In  the  middle  of  the  hall  the  prefect  of  the  college 
sodality  was  speaking  earnestly,  in  a  soft  querulous  voice, 
with  a  boarder.  As  he  spoke  he  wrinkled  a  little  his 
freckled  brow,  and  bit,  between  his  phrases,  at  a  tiny 
bone  pencil. 

—  I  hope  the  matric  men  will  all  come.  The  first  arts 
men  are  pretty  sure.  Second  arts,  too.  We  must  make 
sure  of  the  newcomers. — 

Temple  bent  again  across  Cranly,  as  they  were  passing 
through  the  doorway,  and  said  in  a  swift  whisper : 

—  Do  you  know  that  he  is  a  married  man  ?  He  was 
a  married  man  before  they  converted  him.  He  has  a 
wife  and  children  somewhere.  By  hell,  I  think  that's  the 
queerest  notion  I  ever  heard !     Eh  ?  — 

His  whisper  trailed  off  into  sly  cackling  laughter. 
The  moment  they  were  through  the  doorway  Cranly 
seized  him  rudely  by  the  neck  and  shook  him,  saying : 

—  You  flaming  floundering  fool!  Ill  take  my  dying 
bible  there  isn't  a  bigger  bloody  ape,  do  you  know,  than 
you  in  the  whole  flaming  bloody  world !  — 

Temple  wriggled  in  his  grip,  laughing  still  with  sly 
[233] 


content,   while   Cranly  repeated  flatly  at   every  rude 
shake : 

—  A  flaming  flaring  bloody  idiot !  — 

They  crossed  the  weedy  garden  together.  The  presi- 
dent, wrapped  in  a  heavy  loose  cloak,  was  coming  to- 
wards them  along  one  of  the  walks,  reading  his  office. 
At  the  end  of  the  walk  he  halted  before  turning  and 
raised  his  eyes.  The  students  saluted,  Temple  fumbling 
as  before  at  the  peak  of  his  cap.  They  walked  forward 
in  silence.  As  they  neared  the  alley  Stephen  could  hear 
the  thuds  of  the  players'  hands  and  the  wet  smacks  of 
the  ball  and  Davin's  voice  crying  out  excitedly  at  each 
stroke. 

The  three  students  halted  round  the  box  on  which 
Davin  sat  to  follow  the  game.  Temple,  after  a  few 
moments,  sidled  across  to  Stephen  and  said : 

—  Excuse  me,  I  wanted  to  ask  you  do  you  believe 
that  Jean  Jacques  Rousseau  was  a  sincere  man  ?  — 

Stephen  laughed  outright.  Cranly,  picking  up  the 
broken  stave  of  a  cask  from  the  grass  at  his  feet,  turned 
swiftly  and  said  sternly : 

—  Temple,  I  declare  to  the  living  God  if  you  say 
another  word,  do  you  know,  to  anybody  on  any  subject 
111  kill  you  super  spottum. — 

—  He  was  like  you,  I  fancy — ^said  Stephen  —  an 
emotional  man. — 

—  Blast  him,  curse  him!  —  said  Cranly  broadly. — 
Don't  talk  to  him  at  all.  Sure,  you  might  as  well  be 
talking,  do  you  know,  to  a  flaming  chamberpot  as  talk- 
ing to  Temple.  Go  home,  Temple.  For  God's  sake,  go 
home. — 

—  I  don't  care  a  damn  about  you,  Cranly  —  answered 
Temple,  moving  out  of  reach  of  the  uplifted  stave  and 

[234] 


pointing  at  Stephen. —  He's  the  only  man  I  see  in  this 
institution  that  has  an  individual  mind. — 

—  Institution!  Individual!  —  cried  Cranly. —  Go 
home,  blast  you,  for  you  're  a  hopeless  bloody  man. — 

—  I'm  an  emotional  man  —  said  Temple. —  That's 
quite  rightly  expressed.  And  I'm  proud  that  I'm  an 
emotionalist. — 

He  sidled  out  of  the  alley,  smiling  slyly.  Cranly 
watched  him  with  a  blank  expressionless  face. 

—  Look  at  him !  —  he  said. —  Did  you  ever  see  such  a 
go-by-the-wall  ?  — 

His  phrase  was  greeted  by  a  strange  laugh  from  a 
student  who  lounged  against  the  wall,  his  peaked  cap 
down  on  his  eyes.  The  laugh,  pitched  in  a  high  key 
and  coming  from  a  so  muscular  frame,  seemed  like  the 
whinny  of  an  elephant.  The  student's  body  shook  all 
over  and,  to  ease  his  mirth,  he  rubbed  both  his  hands 
delightedly,  over  his  groins. 

—  Lynch  is  awake  —  said  Cranly. 

Lynch,  for  answer,  straightened  himself  and  thrust 
forward  his  chest. 

—  Lynch  puts  out  his  chest  —  said  Stephen  —  as  a 
criticism  of  life. — 

Lynch  smote  himself  sonorously  on  the  chest  and  said : 

—  Who  has  anything  to  say  about  my  girth  ?  — 
Cranly  took  him  at  the  word  and  the  two  began  to 

tussle.  When  their  faces  had  flushed  with  the  struggle 
they  drew  apart,  panting.  Stephen  bent  down  towards 
Davin  who,  intent  on  the  game,  had  paid  no  heed  to 
the  talk  of  the  others. 

—  And  how  is  my  little  tame  goose?  —  he.  asked. — 
Did  he  sign,  too  ?  — 

Davin  nodded  and  said :  —  And  you,  Stevie  ?  — 
[235] 


Stephen  shook  his  head. —  You're  a  terrible  man, 
Stevie  —  said  Davin,  taking  the  short  pipe  from  his 
mouth  —  always  alone. — 

—  Now  that  you  have  signed  the  petition  for  universal 
peace  —  said  Stephen  —  I  suppose  you  will  burn  that 
little  copybook  I  saw  in  your  room. — 

As  Davin  did  not  answer  Stephen  began  to  quote: 

—  Long  pace,  fianna !  Right  incline,  fianna !  Fianna, 
by  numbers,  salute,  one,  two !  — 

—  That's  a  different  question  —  said  Davin. —  I'm  an 
Irish  nationalist,  first  and  foremost.  But  that's  you  all 
out.    You're  a  born  sneerer,  Stevie. — 

—  When  you  make  the  next  rebellion  with  hurley- 
sticks —  said  Stephen  —  and  want  the  indispensable  in- 
former, tell  me.     I  can  find  you  a  few  in  this  college. — 

—  I  can 't  understand  you  —  said  Davin. —  One  time  I 
hear  you  talk  against  English  literature.  Now  you  talk 
against  the  Irish  informers.  What  with  your  name  and 
your  ideas  .  .  .  are  you  Irish  at  all  1  — 

—  Come  with  me  now  to  the  office  of  arms  and  I  will 
show  you  the  tree  of  my  family  —  said  Stephen. 

—  Then  be  one  of  us  —  said  Davin. —  Why  don't  you 
learn  Irish  ?  Why  did  you  drop  out  of  the  league  class 
after  the  first  lesson  ?  — 

—  You  know  one  reason  why  —  answered  Stephen. 
Davin  tossed  his  head  and  laughed. 

—  Oh,  come  now  —  he  said. —  Is  it  on  account  of  that 
certain  young  lady  and  Father  Moran?  But  that's  all 
in  your  own  mind,  Stevie.  They  were  only  talking  and 
laughing. — 

Stephen  paused  and  laid  a  friendly  hand  upon  Davin 's 
shoulder. 

—  Do  you  remember  —  he  said  —  when  we  knew  each 

[236] 


other  first?  The  first  morning  we  met  you  asked  me 
to  show  you  the  way  to  the  matriculation  class,  putting 
a  very  strong  stress  on  the  first  syllable.  You  remem- 
ber? Then  you  used  to  address  the  Jesuits  as  father, 
you  remember?  I  ask  myself  about  you:  Is  he  as 
innocent  as  his  speech?  — 

—  I  'm  a  simple  person  —  said  Davin. —  You  know  that. 
When  you  told  me  that  night  in  Ilarcourt  Street  those 
things  about  your  private  life,  honest  to  God,  Stevie, 
I  was  not  able  to  eat  my  dinner.  I  was  quite  bad.  I 
was  awake  a  long  time  that  night.  Why  did  you  tell 
me  those  things?  — 

—  Thanks  —  said  Stephen. —  You  mean  I  am  a 
monster. — 

—  No  —  said  Davin  —  but  I  wish  you  had  not  told 
me. — 

A  tide  began  to  surge  beneath  the  calm  surface  of 
Stephen's  friendliness. 

—  This  race  and  this  country  and  this  life  produced 
me  —  he  said. —  I  shall  express  myself  as  I  am. — 

—  Try  to  be  one  of  us  —  repeated  Davin. —  In  your 
heart  you  are  an  Irishman  but  your  pride  is  too  power- 
ful.— 

—  My  ancestors  threw  off  their  language  and  took 
another  —  Stephen  said. —  They  allowed  a  handful  of 
foreigners  to  subject  them.  Do  you  fancy  I  am  going 
to  pay  in  my  own  life  and  person  debts  they  made? 
What  for?  — 

—  For  our  freedom  —  said  Davin. 

—  No  honourable  and  sincere  man  —  said  Stephen  — 
has  given  up  to  you  his  life  and  his  youth  and  his  affec- 
tions from  the  days  of  Tone  to  those  of  Parnell  but  you 
sold  him  to  the  enemy  or  failed  him  in  need  or  reviled 

[237] 


him  and  left  him  for  another.    And  you  invite  me  to 
be  one  of  you.    I'd  see  you  damned  first. — 

—  They  died  for  their  ideals,  Stevie  —  said  Davin. — 
Our  day  will  come  yet,  believe  me. — 

Stephen,  following  his  own  thought,  was  silent  for  an 
instant. 

—  The  soul  is  born  —  he  said  vaguely  —  first  in  those 
moments  I  told  you  of.  It  has  a  slow  and  dark  birth, 
more  mysterious  than  the  birth  of  the  body.  When  the 
soul  of  a  man  is  born  in  this  country  there  are  nets 
flung  at  it  to  hold  it  back  from  flight.  You  talk  to  me 
of  nationality,  language,  religion.  I  shall  try  to  fly  by 
those  nets. — 

Davin  knocked  the  ashes  from  his  pipe. 

—  Too  deep  for  me,  Stevie  —  he  said. —  But  a  man's 
country  comes  first.  Ireland  first,  Stevie.  You  can  be 
a  poet  or  mystic  after. — 

—  Do  you  know  what  Ireland  is?  —  asked  Stephen 
with  cold  violence. —  Ireland  is  the  old  sow  that  eats 
her  farrow. — 

Davin  rose  from  his  box  and  went  towards  the  players, 
shaking  his  head  sadly.  But  in  a  moment  his  sadness 
left  him  and  he  was  hotly  disputing  with  Cranly  and  the 
two  players  who  had  finished  their  game.  A  match  of 
four  was  arranged,  Cranly  insisting,  however,  that  his 
ball  should  be  used.  He  let  it  rebound  twice  or  thrice 
to  his  hand  and  struck  it  strongly  and  swiftly  towards 
the  base  of  the  alley,  exclaiming  in  answer  to  its  thud: 

—  Your  soul !  — 

Stephen  stood  with  Lynch  till  the  score  began  to  rise. 
Then  he  plucked  him  by  the  sleeve  to  come  away. 
Lynch  obeyed,  saying : 

—  Let  us  eke  go,  as  Cranly  has  it. — 

[238] 


Stephen  smiled  at  this  sidethrust. 

They  passed  back  through  the  garden  and  out 
through  the  hall  where  the  doddering  porter  was  pinning 
up  a  notice  in  the  frame.  At  the  foot  of  the  steps  they 
halted  and  Stephen  took  a  packet  of  cigarettes  from  his 
pocket  and  offered  it  to  his  companion. 

—  I  know  you  are  poor  —  he  said. 

—  Damn  your  yellow  insolence  —  answered  Lynch. 
This  second  proof  of  Lynch 's  culture  made  Stephen 

smile  again. 

—  It  was  a  great  day  for  European  culture  —  he  said 
—  when  you  made  up  your  mind  to  swear  in  yellow. — 

They  lit  their  cigarettes  and  turned  to  the  right. 
After  a  pause  Stephen  began : 

—  Aristotle  has  not  defined  pity  and  terror.  I  have. 
I  say  .  .  . — 

Lynch  halted  and  said  bluntly : 

—  Stop!  I  won't  listen!  I  am  sick.  I  was  out  last 
night  on  a  yellow  drunk  with  Horan  and  Goggins. — 

Stephen  went  on : 

—  Pity  is  the  feeling  which  arrests  the  xnind  in  the 
presence  of  whatsoever  is  grave  and  constant  in  human 
sufferings  and  unites  it  with  the  human  sufferer.  Terror 
is  the  feeling  which  arrests  the  mind  in  the  presence  of 
whatsoever  is  grave  and  constant  in  human  sufferings  and 
unites  it  with  the  secret  cause. — 

—  Repeat  —  said  Lynch. 

Stephen  repeated  the  definitions  slowly. 

—  A  girl  got  into  a  hansom  a  few  days  ago  —  he  went 
on  —  in  London.  She  was  on  her  way  to  meet  her 
mother  whom  she  had  not  seen  for  many  years.  At  the 
corner  of  a  street  the  shaft  of  a  lorry  shivered  the 
window  of  the  hansom  in  the  shape  of  a  star.    A  long 

[239] 


fine  needle  of  the  shivered  glass  pierced  her  heart.  She 
died  on  the  instant.  The  reporter  called  it  a  tragic 
death.  It  is  not.  It  is  remote  from  terror  and  pity 
according  to  the  terms  of  my  definitions. 

—  The  tragic  emotion,  in  fact,  is  a  face  looking  two 
ways,  towards  terror  and  towards  pity,  both  of  which 
are  phases  of  it.  You  see  I  use  the  word  arrest,  I  mean 
that  the  tragic  emotion  is  static.  Or  rather  the  dramatic 
emotion  is.  The  feelings  excited  by  improper  >rt  are 
kinetic,  desire  or  loathing.  Desire  urges  us  to  possess, 
to  go  to  something ;  loathing  urges  us  to  abandon,  to  go 
from  something.  The  arts  which  excite  them,  porno- 
graphical  or  didactic,  are  therefore  improper  arts.  The 
esthetic  emotion  (I  used  the  general  term)  is  therefore 
static.  The  mind  is  arrested  and  raised  above  desire 
and  loathing. — 

—  You  say  that  art  must  not  excite  desire  —  said 
Lynch  —  I  told  you  that  one  day  I  wrote  my  name  in 
pencil  on  the  backside  of  the  Venus  of  Praxiteles  in  the 
Museum.    Was  that  not  desire  ?  — 

—  I  speak  of  normal  natures  —  said  Stephen. —  You 
also  told  me  that  when  you  were  a  boy  in  that  charming 
Carmelite  school  you  ate  pieces  of  dried  cowdung. — 

Lynch  broke  again  into  a  whinny  of  laughter  and 
again  rubbed  both  his  hands  over  his  groins  but  without 
taking  them  from  his  pockets. 

—  0,  I  did !    I  did !  —  he  cried. 

Stephen  turned  towards  his  companion  and  looked  at 
him  for  a  moment  boldly  in  the  eyes.  Lynch,  recover- 
ing from  his  laughter,  answered  his  look  from  his 
humbled  eyes.  The  long  slender  flattened  skull  beneath 
the  long  pointed  cap  brought  before  Stephen's  mind  the 

[240] 


image  of  a  hooded  reptile.  The  eyes,  too,  were  reptile- 
like in  glint  and  gaze.  Yet  at  that  instant,  humbled 
and  alert  in  their  look,  they  were  lit  by  one  tiny  human 
point,  the  window  of  a  shrivelled  soul,  poignant  and  self- 
embittered. 

—  As  for  that  —  Stephen  said  in  polite  parenthesis  — 
we  are  all  animals.     I  also  am  an  animal. — 

—  You  are  —  said  Lynch. 

—  But  we  are  just  now  in  a  mental  world  —  Stephen 
continued. —  The  desire  and  loathing  excited  by  improper 
esthetic  means  are  really  not  esthetic  emotions  not  only 
because  they  are  kinetic  in  character  but  also  because 
they  are  not  more  than  physical.  Our  flesh  shrinks 
from  what  it  dreads  and  responds  to  the  stimulus  of 
what  it  desires  by  a  purely  reflex  action  of  the  nervous 
system.  Our  eyelid  closes  before  we  are  aware  that  the 
fly  is  about  to  enter  our  eye. — 

—  Not  always  —  said  Lynch  critically. 

—  In  the  same  way  —  said  Stephen  —  your  flesh  re- 
sponded to  the  stimulus  of  a  naked  statue  but  it  was,  I 
say,  simply  a  reflex  action  of  the  nerves.  Beauty  ex- 
pressed by  the  artist  cannot  awaken  in  us  an  emotion 
which  is  kinetic  or  a  sensation  which  is  purely  physical. 
It  awakens,  or  ought  to  awaken,  or  induces,  or  ought  to 
induce,  an  esthetic  stasis,  an  ideal  pity  or  an  ideal  terror, 
a  stasis  called  forth,  prolonged  and  at  last  dissolved  by 
what  I  call  the  rhythm  of  beauty.— 

—  What  is  that  exactly  ?  —  asked  Lynch. 

—  Rhythm  —  said  Stephen  —  is  the  first  formal 
esthetic  relation  of  part  to  part  in  any  esthetic  whole 
or  of  an  esthetic  whole  to  its  part  or  parts  or  of  any 
part  to  the  esthetic  whole  of  which  it  is  a  part. — 

[241] 


—  If  that  is  rhythm  —  said  Lynch  —  let  me  hear  what 
you  call  beauty :  and,  please  remember,  though  I  did  eat 
a  cake  of  cowdung  once,  that  I  admire  only  beauty. — 

Stephen  raised  his  cap  as  if  in  greeting.  Then,  blush- 
ing slightly,  he  laid  his  hand  on  Lynch 's  thick  tweed 
sleeve. 

—  We  are  right  —  he  said  —  and  the  others  are  wrong. 
To  speak  of  these  things  and  to  try  to  understand  their 
nature  and,  having  understood  it,  to  try  slowly  and 
humbly  and  constantly  to  express,  to  press  out  again, 
from  the  gross  earth  or  what  it  brings  forth,  from  sound 
and  shape  and  colour  which  are  the  prison  gates  of  our 
soul,  an  image  of  the  beauty  we  have  come  to  under- 
stand —  that  is  art. — 

They  had  reached  the  canal  bridge  and,  turning  from 
their  course,  went  on  by  the  trees.  A  crude  grey  light, 
mirrored  in  the  sluggish  water,  and  a  smell  of  wet 
branches  over  their  heads  seemed  to  war  against  the 
course  of  Stephen's  thought. 

—  But  you  have  not  answered  my  question  —  said 
Lynch  —  What  is  art?  What  is  the  beauty  it  ex- 
presses ?  — 

—  That  was  the  first  definition  I  gave  you,  you  sleepy- 
headed  wretch  —  said  Stephen  —  when  I  began  to  try  to 
think  out  the  matter  for  myself.  Do  you  remember  the 
night?  Cranly  lost  his  temper  and  began  to  talk  about 
Wicklow  bacon. — 

—  I  remember  —  said  Lynch. —  He  told  us  about  them 
flaming  fat  devils  of  pigs. — 

—  Art  —  said  Stephen  —  is  the  human  disposition  of 
sensible  or  intelligible  matter  for  an  esthetic  end.  You 
remember  the  pigs  and  forgot  that.  You  are  a  distress- 
ing pair,  you  and  Cranly. — 

[242] 


Lynch  made  a  grimace  at  the  raw  grey  sky  and 
said: 

—  If  I  am  to  listen  to  your  esthetic  philosophy  give  me 
at  least  another  cigarette.  I  don't  care  about  it.  I 
don't  even  care  about  women.  Damn  you  and  damn 
everything.  I  want  a  job  of  five  hundred  a  year.  You 
can't  get  me  one. — 

Stephen  handed  him  the  packet  of  cigarettes.  Lynch 
took  the  last  one  that  remained,  saying  simply : 

—  Proceed !  — 

—  Aquinas  —  said  Stephen  —  says  that  is  beautiful  the 
apprehension  of  which  pleases. — 

Lynch  nodded. 

—  I  remember  that  —  he  said  —  Fulcra  sunt  quce  visa 
placent, — 

—  He  uses  the  word  visa  —  said  Stephen  —  to  cover 
esthetic  apprehensions  of  all  kinds,  whether  through 
sight  or  hearing  or  through  any  other  avenue  of  appre- 
hension. This  word,  though  it  is  vague,  is  clear  enough 
to  keep  away  good  and  evil,  which  excite  desire  and  loath- 
ing. It  means  certainly  a  stasis  and  not  a  kinesis.  How 
about  the  true?  It  produces  also  a  stasis  of  the  mind. 
You  would  not  write  your  name  in  pencil  across  the 
hypothenuse  of  a  rightangled  triangle. — 

—  No, —  said  Lynch  —  give  me  the  hypothenuse  of  the 
Venus  of  Praxiteles, — 

—  Static  therefore  —  said  Stephen  —  Plato,  I  believe, 
said  that  beauty  is  the  splendour  of  truth.  I  don't 
think  that  it  has  a  meaning  but  the  true  and  the  beauti- 
ful are  akin.  Truth  is  beheld  by  the  intellect  which  is 
appeased  by  the  most  satisfying  relations  of  the  in- 
telligible :  beauty  is  beheld  by  the  imagination  which  is 
appeased  by  the  most  satisfying  relations  of  the  sensible. 

[243] 


The  first  step  in  the  direction  of  truth  is  to  understand 
the  frame  and  scope  of  the  intellect  itself,  to  comprehend 
the  act  itself  of  intellection.  Aristotle 's  entire  system  of 
philosophy  rests  upon  his  book  of  psychology  and  that, 
I  think,  rests  on  his  statement  that  the  same  attribute 
cannot  at  the  same  time  and  in  the  same  connexion 
belong  to  and  not  belong  to  the  same  subject.  The  first 
step  in  the  direction  of  beauty  is  to  understand  the  frame 
and  scope  of  the  imagination,  to  comprehend  the  act 
itself  of  esthetic  apprehension.     Is  that  clear  1  — 

—  But  what  is  beauty  ?  —  asked  Lynch  impatiently. 
—  Out  with  another  definition.  Something  we  see  and 
like !     Is  that  the  best  you  and  Aquinas  can  do  ?  — 

—  Let  us  take  woman  —  said  Stephen. 

—  Let  us  take  her !  —  said  Lynch  fervently. 

—  The  Greek,  the  Turk,  the  Chinese,  the  Copt,  the 
Hottentot  —  said  Stephen  —  all  admire  a  different  type 
of  female  beauty.  That  seems  to  be  a  maze  out  of 
which  we  cannot  escape.  I  see,  however,  two  ways  out. 
One  is  this  hypothesis:  that  every  physical  quality  ad- 
mired by  men  in  women  is  in  direct  connexion  with 
the  manifold  functions  of  women  for  the  propagation  of 
the  species.  It  may  be  so.  The  world,  it  seems,  is 
drearier  than  even  you,  Lynch,  imagined.  For  my  part 
I  dislike  that  way  out.  It  leads  to  eugenics  rather  than 
to  esthetic.  It  leads  you  out  of  the  maze  into  a  new 
gaudy  lecture  room  where  MacCann,  with  one  hand  on 
The  Origin  of  Species  and  the  other  hand  on  the  new 
testament,  tells  you  that  you  admired  the  great  flanks 
of  Venus  because  you  felt  that  she  would  bear  you  burly 
offspring  and  admired  her  great  breasts  because  you  felt 
that  she  would  give  good  milk  to  her  children  and 
yours,— 

[244] 


—  Then  MacCann  is  a  sulphuryellow  liar  —  said  Lynch 
energetically. 

—  There  remains  another  way  out  —  said  Stephen, 
laughing. 

—  To  wit?  —  said  Lynch. 

—  This  hypothesis  —  Stephen  began. 

A  long  dray  laden  with  old  iron  came  round  the 
corner  of  sir  Patrick  Dun's  hospital  covering  the  end 
of  Stephen's  speech  with  the  harsh  roar  of  jangled  and 
rattling  metal.  Lynch  closed  his  ears  and  gave  out 
oath  after  oath  till  the  dray  had  passed.  Then  he  turned 
on  his  heel  rudely.  Stephen  turned  also  and  waited  for 
a  few  moments  till  his  companion's  ill-humour  had  had 
its  vent. 

—  This  hypothesis  —  Stephen  repeated  —  is  the  other 
way  out:  that,  though  the  same  object  may  not  seem 
beautiful  to  all  people,  all  people  who  admire  a  beautiful 
object  find  in  it  certain  relations  which  satisfy  and  co- 
incide with  the  stages  themselves  of  all  esthetic  appre- 
hension. These  relations  of  the  sensible,  visible  to  you 
through  one  form  and  to  me  through  another,  must  be 
therefore  the  necessarj^  qualities  of  beauty.  Now,  we 
can  return  to  our  old  friend  saint  Thomas  for  another 
pennyworth  of  wisdom. — 

Lynch  laughed. 

—  It  amuses  me  vastly  —  he  said  —  to  hear  you  quot- 
ing him  time  after  time  like  a  jolly  round  friar.  Are 
you  laughing  in  your  sleeve  ?  — 

—  MacAlister  —  answered  Stephen  —  would  call  my 
esthetic  theory  applied  Aquinas.  So  far  as  this  side  of 
esthetic  philosophy  extends  Aquinas  will  carry  me  all 
along  the  line.  When  we  come  to  the  phenomena  of 
artistic  conception,  artistic  gestation  and  artistic  repro- 

[245] 


duction,  I  require  a  new  terminology  and  a  new  personal 
experience. — 

—  Of  course  —  said  Lynch. —  After  all  Aquinas,  in 
spite  of  his  intellect,  was  exactly  a  good  round  friar. 
But  you  will  tell  me  about  the  new  personal  experience 
and  new  terminology  some  other  day.  Hurry  up  and 
finish  the  first  part. — 

—  Who  knows  ?  —  said  Stephen,  smiling. —  Perhaps 
Aquinas  would  understand  me  better  than  you.  He  was 
a  poet  himself.  He  wrote  a  hymn  for  Maundy  Thursday. 
It  begins  with  the  words  Pange  lingua  gloriosL  They 
say  it  is  the  highest  glory  of  the  hymnal.  It  is  an  in- 
tricate and  soothing  hymn.  I  like  it:  but  there  is  no 
hymn  that  can  be  put  beside  that  mournful  and  majestic 
processional  song,  the  Vexilla  Regis  of  Yenantius  For- 
tunatus. — 

Lynch  began  to  sing  softly  and  solemnly  in  a  deep 
bass  voice: 

Inpleta  sunt  quce  concinit 
David  fideli  carmine 
Dicendo  nationihus 
Begnavit  a  lingo  Deus. 

—  That 's  great !  —  he  said,  well  pleased. —  Great 
music !  — 

They  turned  into  Lower  Mount  Street.  A  few  steps 
from  the  corner  a  fat  young  man,  wearing  a  silk  neck- 
cloth, saluted  them  and  stopped. —  Did  you  hear  the 
results  of  the  exams.  ?  —  he  asked. —  Griffin  was  plucked. 
Halpin  and  OTlynn  are  through  the  home  civil. 
Moonan  got  fifth  place  in  the  Indian.  0 'Shaughnessy 
got  fourteenth.  The  Irish  fellows  in  Clark's  gave  them  a 
feed  last  night.    They  all  ate  curry. — 

[246] 


His  pallid  bloated  face  expressed  benevolent  malice 
and,  as  he  had  advanced  through  his  tidings  of  success, 
his  small  fat  encircled  eyes  vanished  out  of  sight  and  his 
weak  wheezing  voice  out  of  hearing. 

In  reply  to  a  question  of  Stephen's  his  eyes  and  his 
voice  came  forth  again  from  their  lurking  places. 

—  Yes,  MacCuUagh  and  I  —  he  said. —  He's  taking 
pure  mathematics  and  I'm  taking  constitutional  history. 
There  are  twenty  subjects.  I'm  taking  botany  too. 
You  know  I  'm  a  member  of  the  field  club. — 

He  drew  back  from  the  other  two  in  a  stately  fashion 
and  placed  a  plump  woollen  gloved  hand  on  his  breast, 
from  which  muttered  wheezing  laughter  at  once  broke 
forth. 

—  Bring  us  a  few  turnips  and  onions  the  next  time  you 
go  out  —  said  Stephen  drily  —  to  make  a  stew. — 

The  fat  student  laughed  indulgently  and  said : 

—  We  are  all  highly  respectable  people  in  the  field 
club.  Last  Saturday  we  went  out  to  Glenmalure,  seven 
of  us. — 

—  With  women,  Donovan  ?  —  said  Lynch. 
Donovan  again  laid  his  hand  on  his  chest  and  said : 

—  Our  end  is  the  acquisition  of  knowledge. — 
Then  he  said  quickly: 

—  I  hear  you  are  writing  some  essay  about  esthetics. — 
Stephen  made  a  vague  gesture  of  denial. 

—  Goethe  and  Lessing  —  said  Donovan  —  have  written 
a  lot  on  that  subject,  the  classical  school  and  the  romantic 
school  and  all  that.  The  Laocoon  interested  me  very 
much  when  I  read  it.  Of  course  it  is  idealistic,  German, 
ultra  profound. — 

Neither  of  the  others  spoke.  Donovan  took  leave  of 
them  urbanely. 

[247] 


—  I  must  go  —  he  said  softly  and  benevolently  —  I 
have  a  strong  suspicion,  amounting  almost  to  a  convic- 
tion, that  my  sister  intended  to  make  pancakes  today  for 
the  dinner  of  the  Donovan  family. — 

—  Goodbye  —  Stephen  said  in  his  wake. —  Don't  for- 
get the  turnips  for  me  and  my  mate. — 

Lynch  gazed  after  him,  his  lip  curling  in  slow  scorn 
till  his  face  resembled  a  devil's  mask: 

—  To  think  that  that  yellow  pancake  eating  excre- 
ment can  get  a  good  job  —  he  said  at  length  —  and  I  have 
to  smoke  cheap  cigarettes !  — 

They  turned  their  faces  towards  Merrion  Square  and 
went  on  for  a  little  in  silence. 

—  To  finish  what  I  was  saying  about  beauty  —  said 
Stephen  —  the  most  satisfying  relations  of  the  sensible 
must  therefore  correspond  to  the  necessary  phases  of 
artistic  apprehension.  Find  these  and  you  find  the 
qualities  of  universal  beauty.  Aquinas  says:  Ad  puU 
critudinem  tria  requiruntur  integritas,  consonantia, 
claritas.  I  translate  it  so:  Three  things  are  needed  for 
beauty,  wholeness,  harmony  and  radiance.  Do  these 
correspond  to  the  phases  of  apprehension?  Are  you 
following  ?  — 

—  Of  course,  I  am  —  said  Lynch. —  If  you  think  I 
have  an  excrementitious  intelligence  run  after  Donovan 
and  ask  him  to  listen  to  you. — 

Stephen  pointed  to  a  basket  which  a  butcher's  boy  had 
slung  inverted  on  his  head. 

—  Look  at  that  basket  —  he  said. 

—  I  see  it  —  said  Lynch. 

—  In  order  to  see  that  basket  —  said  Stephen  —  your 
mind  first  of  all  separates  the  basket  from  the  rest  of  the 
visible   universe   which   is   not   the   basket.     The   first 

[248] 


phase  of  apprehension  is  a  bounding  line  drawn  about  the 
object  to  be  apprehended.  An  esthetic  image  is  pre- 
sented to  us  either  in  space  or  in  time.  What  is  audible 
is  presented  in  time,  what  is  visible  is  presented  in  space. 
But  temporal  or  spatial,  the  esthetic  image  is  first 
luminously  apprehended  as  selfbounded  and  selfcon- 
tained  upon  the  immeasurable  background  of  space  or 
time  w^hich  is  not  it.  You  apprehended  it  as  one  thing. 
You  see  it  as  one  whole.  You  apprehend  its  wholeness. 
That  is  integritas, — 

—  Bull's  eye !  —  said  Lynch,  laughing  —  Go  on. — 

—  Then  —  said  Stephen  —  you  pass  from  point  to 
point,  led  by  its  formal  lines;  you  apprehend  it  as 
balanced  part  against  part  within  its  limits;  you. feel 
the  rhythm  of  its  structure.  In  other  words,  the  syn- 
thesis of  immediate  perception  is  followed  by  the  analysis 
of  apprehension.  Having  first  felt  that  it  is  one  thing 
you  feel  now  that  it  is  a  thing.  You  apprehend  it  as 
complex,  multiple,  divisible,  separable,  made  up  of  its 
parts,  the  result  of  its  parts  and  their  sum,  harmonious. 
That  is  consonantia. — 

—  Bull's  eye  again! — ^said  Lynch  wittily. —  Tell  me 
now  what  is  claritas  and  you  win  the  cigar. — 

—  The  connotation  of  the  word  —  Stephen  said  —  is 
rather  vague.  Aquinas  uses  a  term  which  seems  to  be 
inexact.  It  baffled  me  for  a  long  time.  It  would  lead 
you  to  believe  that  he  had  in  mind  symbolism  or  idealism, 
the  supreme  quality  of  beauty  being  a  light  from  some 
other  world,  the  idea  of  which  the  matter  was  but  the 
shadow,  the  reality  of  which  it  was  but  the  symbol. 
I  thought  he  might  mean  that  claritas  was  the  artistic 
discovery  and  representation  of  the  divine  purpose  in 
anything  or  a  force  of  generalization  which  would  make 

[249] 


the  esthetic  image  a  universal  one,  make  it  outshine 
its  proper  conditions.  But  that  is  literary  talk.  I  un- 
derstand it  so.  When  you  have  apprehended  that  basket 
as  one  thing  and  have  then  analysed  it  according  to  its 
form  and  apprehended  it  as  a  thing  you  make  the  only 
synthesis  which  is  logically  and  esthetically  permissible. 
You  see  that  it  is  that  thing  which  it  is  and  no  other 
thing.  The  radiance  of  which  he  speaks  in  the  scholastic 
quidditas,  the  whatness  of  a  thing.  This  supreme  quality 
is  felt  by  the  artist  when  the  esthetic  image  is  first  con- 
ceived in  his  imagination.  The  mind  in  that  mysterious 
instant  Shelley  likened  beautifully  to  a  fading  coal.  The 
instant  wherein  that  supreme  quality  of  beauty,  the 
clear  radiance  of  the  esthetic  image,  is  apprehended 
luminously  by  the  mind  which  has  been  arrested  by  its 
wholeness  and  fascinated  by  its  harmony  is  the  luminous 
silent  stasis  of  esthetic  pleasure,  a  spiritual  state  very 
like  to  that  cardiac  condition  which  the  Italian  physi- 
ologist Luigi  Galvani,  using  a  phrase  almost  as  beautiful 
as  Shelley's,  called  the  enchantment  of  the  heart. — 

Stephen  paused  and,  though  his  companion  did  not 
speak,  felt  that  his  words  had  called  up  around  them  a 
thought  enchanted  silence. 

—  What  I  have  said  —  he  began  again  —  refers  to 
beauty  in  the  wider  sense  of  the  word,  in  the  sense  which 
the  word  has  in  the  literary  tradition.  In  the  market 
place  it  has  another  sense.  When  we  speak  of  beauty  in 
the  second  sense  of  the  term  our  judgment  is  influenced 
in  the  first  place  by  the  art  itself  and  by  the  form  of  that 
art.  The  image,  it  is  clear,  must  be  set  between  the 
mind  or  senses  of  the  artist  himself  and  the  mind  or 
senses  of  others.  If  you  bear  this  in  memory  you  will  see 
that  art  necessarily  divides  itself  into  three  forms  pro- 

[250] 


gressing  from  one  to  the  next.  These  forms  are:  the 
lyrical  form,  the  form  wherein  the  artist  presents  his 
image  in  immediate  relation  to  himself;  the  epical  form, 
the  form  wherein  he  presents  his  image  in  mediate  rela- 
tion to  himself  and  to  others;  the  dramatic  form,  the 
form  wherein  he  presents  his  image  in  immediate  rela- 
tion to  others. — 

—  That  you  told  me  a  few  nights  ago  —said  Lynch  — 
and  we  began  the  famous  discussion. — 

—  I  have  a  book  at  home  —  said  Stephen  —  in  which  I 
have  written  down  questions  which  are  more  amusing 
than  yours  were.  In  finding  the  answers  to  them  I  found 
the  theory  of  the  esthetic  which  I  am  trying  to  explain. 
Here  are  some  questions  I  set  myself:  Is  a  chair  finely 
made  tragic  or  comic  f  Is  the  portrait  of  Mona  Lisa  good 
if  I  desire  to  see  it?  Is  the  lust  of  Sir  Philip  Crampton 
lyrical,  epical  or  dramatic?    If  not,  why  not?  — 

—  Why  not,  indeed  ?  —  said  Lynch,  laughing. 

—  If  a  man  hacking  in  fury  at  a  block  of  wood  — 
Stephen  continued  —  make  there  an  image  of  a  cow,  is 
that  image  a  work  of  art?    If  not,  why  not?  — 

—  That's  a  lovely  one  —  said  Lynch,  laughing  again. — 
That  has  the  true  scholastic  stink. — 

—  Lessing  —  said  Stephen  —  should  not  have  taken  a 
group  of  statues  to  write  of.  The  art,  being  inferior, 
does  not  present  the  forms  I  spoke  of  distinguished 
clearly  one  from  another.  Even  in  literature,  the  highest 
and  most  spiritual  art,  the  forms  are  often  confused. 
The  lyrical  form  is  in  fact  the  simplest  verbal  vesture  of 
an  instant  of  emotion,  a  rhythmical  cry  such  as  ages  ago 
cheered  on  the  man  who  pulled  at  the  oar  or  dragged 
stones  up  a  slope.  He  who  utters  it  is  more  conscious  of 
the  instant  of  emotion  than  of  himself  as  feeling  emotion. 

[251] 


The  simplest  epical  form  is  seen  emerging  out  of  lyrical 
literature  when  the  artist  prolongs  and  broods  upon 
himself  as  the  centre  of  an  epical  event  and  this  form 
progresses  till  the  centre  of  emotional  gravity  is  equi- 
distant from  the  artist  himself  and  from  others.  The 
narrative  is  no  longer  purely  personal.  The  personality 
of  the  artist  passes  into  the  narration  itself,  flowing 
round  and  round  the  persons  and  the  action  like  a  vital 
sea.  This  progress  you  will  see  easily  in  that  old  English 
ballad  Turpin  Hero,  which  begins  in  the  first  person 
and  ends  in  the  third  person.  The  dramatic  form  is 
reached  when  the  vitality  which  has  flowed  and  eddied 
round  each  person  fills  every  person  with  such  vital  force 
that  he  or  she  assumes  a  proper  and  intangible  esthetic 
life.  The  personality  of  the  artist,  at  first  a  cry  or  a 
cadence  or  a  mood  and  then  a  fluid  and  lambent  narrative, 
finally  refines  itself  out  of  existence,  impersonalizes  itself, 
so  to  speak.  The  esthetic  image  in  the  dramatic  form 
is  life  purified  in  and  reprojected  from  the  human  imagi- 
nation. The  mystery  of  esthetic  like  that  of  material 
creation  is  accomplished.  The  artist,  like  the  God  of 
the  creation,  remains  within  or  behind  or  beyond  or  above 
his  handiwork,  invisible,  refined  out  of  existence,  in- 
different, paring  his  fingernails. — 

—  Trying  to  refine  them  also  out  of  existence  —  said 
Lynch. 

A  fine  rain  began  to  fall  from  the  high  veiled  sky  and 
they  turned  into  the  duke^s  lawn,  to  reach  the  national 
library  before  the  shower  came. 

—  What  do  you  mean  —  Lynch  asked  surlily  —  by 
prating  about  beauty  and  the  imagination  in  this  miser- 
able God  forsaken  island  ?    No  wonder  the  artist  retired 

[252] 


within  or  behind  his  handiwork  after  having  perpetrated 
this  country. — 

The  rain  fell  faster.  When  they  passed  through  the 
passage  beside  the  royal  Irish  academy  they  found  many 
students  sheltering  under  the  arcade  of  the  library. 
Cranly,  leaning  against  a  pillar,  was  picking  his  teeth 
with  a  sharpened  match,  listening  to  some  companions. 
Some  girls  stood  near  the  entrance  door.  Lynch  whis- 
pered to  Stephen : 

—  Your  beloved  is  here. — 

Stephen  took  his  place  silently  on  the  step  below  the 
group  of  students,  heedless  of  the  rain  which  fell  fast, 
turning  his  eyes  towards  her  from  time  to  time.  She 
too  stood  silently  among  her  companions.  She  has  no 
priest  to  flirt  with,  he  thought  with  conscious  bitterness, 
remembering  how  he  had  seen  her  last.  Lynch  was 
right.  His  mind,  emptied  of  theory  and  courage,  lapsed 
back  into  a  listless  peace. 

He  heard  the  students  talking  among  themselves. 
They  spoke  of  two  friends  who  had  passed  the  final  medi- 
cal examination,  of  the  chances  of  getting  places  on 
ocean  liners,  of  poor  and  rich  practices. 

—  That's  all  a  bubble.  An  Irish  country  practice  is 
better. — 

—  Hynes  was  two  years  in  Liverpool  and  he  says  the 
same.  A  frightful  hole  he  said  it  was.  Nothing  but 
midwifery  cases. — 

—  Do  you  mean  to  say  it  is  better  to  have  a  job  here 
in  the  country  than  in  a  rich  city  like  that?  I  know  a 
fellow  .  .  . — 

—  Hynes  has  no  brains.  He  got  through  by  stewing, 
pure  stewing. — 

[253] 


.    — Don't  mind  him.     There's  plenty  of  money  to  be 
made  in  a  big  commercial  city. — 

—  Depends  on  the  practice. — 

—  Ego  credo  ut  vita  pauperum  est  simpUciter  atrox, 
simpliciter  sanguinarius  atrox,  in  Liverpoolio. — 

Their  voices  reached  his  ears  as  if  from  a  distance  in 
interrupted  pulsation.  She  was  preparing  to  go  away 
with  her  companions. 

The  quick  light  shower  had  drawn  oif,  tarrying  in 
clusters  of  diamonds  among  the  shrubs  of  the  quadrangle 
where  an  exhalation  was  breathed  forth  by  the  blackened 
earth.  Their  trim  boots  prattled  as  they  stood  on  the 
steps  of  the  colonnade,  talking  quietly  and  gaily,  glanc- 
ing at  the  clouds,  holding  their  umbrellas  at  cunning 
angles  against  the  few  last  raindrops,  closing  them 
again,  holding  their  skirts  demurely. 

And  if  he  had  judged  her  harshly  ?  If  her  life  were  a 
simple  rosary  of  hours,  her  life  simple  and  strange  as  a 
bird's  life,  gay  in  the  morning,  restless  all  day,  tired 
at  sundown?  Her  heart  simple  and  wilful  as  a  bird's 
heart? 

Towards  dawn  he  awoke.  0  what  sweet  music !  His 
soul  was  all  dewy  wet.  Over  his  limbs  in  sleep  pale 
cool  waves  of  light  had  passed.  He  lay  still,  as  if  his  soul 
lay  amid  cool  waters,  conscious  of  faint  sweet  music. 
His  mind  was  waking  slowly  to  a  tremulous  morning 
knowledge,  a  morning  inspiration.  A  spirit  filled  him, 
pure  as  the  purest  water,  sweet  as  dew,  moving  as  music. 
But  how  faintly  it  was  inbreathed,  how  passionlessly, 
as  if  the  seraphim  themselves  were  breathing  upon  him ! 
His  soul  was  waking  slowly,  fearing  to  awake  wholly. 
It  was  that  windless  hour  of  dawn  when  madness  wakes 

[254] 


and  strange  plants  open  to  the  light  and  the  moth  flies 
forth  silently. 

An  enchantment  of  the  heart!  The  night  had  been 
enchanted.  In  a  dream  or  vision  he  had  known  the 
ecstasy  of  seraphic  life.  Was  it  an  instant  of  enchant- 
ment only  or  long  hours  and  years  and  ages  ? 

The  instant  of  inspiration  seemed  now  to  be  reflected 
from  all  sides  at  once  from  a  multitude  of  cloudy  cir- 
cumstances of  what  had  happened  or  of  what  might 
have  happened.  The  instant  flashed  forth  like  a  point 
of  light  and  now  from  cloud  on  cloud  of  vague  circum- 
stance confused  form  was  veiling  softly  its  afterglow. 
0!  In  the  virgin  womb  of  the  imagination  the  word 
was  made  flesh.  Gabriel  the  seraph  had  come  to  the 
virgin's  chamber.  An  afterglow  deepened  within  his 
spirit,  whence  the  white  flame  had  passed,  deepening  to 
a  rose  and  ardent  light.  That  rose  and  ardent  light  was 
her  strange  wilful  heart,  strange  that  no  man  had  known 
or  would  know,  wilful  from  before  the  beginning  of  the 
world :  and  lured  by  that  ardent  roselike  glow  the  choirs 
of  the  seraphim  were  falling  from  heaven. 

Are  you  not  weary  of  ardent  ways, 
Lure  of  the  fallen  seraphim  f 
Tell  no  more  of  enchanted  days. 

The  verses  passed  from  his  mind  to  his  lips  and,  mur- 
muring them  over,  he  felt  the  rhythmic  movement  of  a 
villaneUe  pass  through  them.  The  roselike  glow  sent 
forth  its  rays  of  rhyme ;  ways,  days,  blaze,  praise,  raise. 
Its  rays  burned  up  the  world,  consumed  the  hearts  of 
men  and  angels:  the  rays  from  the  rose  that  was  her 
wilful  heart. 

[255] 


Your  eyes  have  set  man's  heart  ablaze 
And  you  have  had  your  will  of  him. 
Are  you  not  weary  of  ardent  ways? 

And  then?  The  rhythm  died  away,  ceased,  began 
again  to  move  and  beat.  And  then?  Smoke,  incense 
ascending  from  the  altar  of  the  world. 

Above  the  flame  the  smoke  of  praise 
Goes  up  from  ocean  rim  to  rim 
Tell  no  more  of  enchanted  days. 

Smoke  went  up  from  the  whole  earth,  from  the 
vapoury  oceans,  smoke  of  her  praise.  The  earth  was 
like  a  swinging  swaying  censer,  a  ball  of  incense,  an 
ellipsoidal  ball.  The  rhythm  died  out  at  once;  the  cry 
of  his  heart  was  broken.  His  lips  began  to  murmur  the 
first  verses  over  and  over;  then  went  on  stumbling 
through  half  verses,  stammering  and  baffled;  then 
stopped.     The  heart's  cry  was  broken. 

The  veiled  windless  hour  had  passed  and  behind  the 
panes  of  the  naked  window  the  morning  light  was 
gathering.  A  bell  beat  faintly  very  far  away.  A  bird 
twittered;  two  birds,  three.  The  bell  and  the  bird 
ceased:  and  the  dull  white  light  spread  itself  east  and 
west,  covering  the  world,  covering  the  roselight  in  his 
heart. 

Fearing  to  lose  all,  he  raised  himself  suddenly  on  his 
elbow  to  look  for  paper  and  pencil.  There  was  neither 
on  the  table ;  only  the  soup  plate  he  had  eaten  the  rice 
from  for  supper  and  the  candlestick  with  its  tendrils  of 
tallow  and  its  paper  socket,  singed  by  the  last  flame. 
He  stretched  his  arm  wearily  towards  the  foot  of  the 
bed,  groping  with  his  hand  in  the  pockets  of  the  coat 

[256] 


that  hung  there.  His  fingers  found  a  pencil  and  then 
a  cigarette  packet.  He  lay  back  and,  tearing  open  the 
packet,  placed  the  last  cigarette  on  the  window  ledge 
and  began  to  write  out  the  stanzas  of  the  villanelle  in 
small  neat  letters  on  the  rough  cardboard  surface. 

Having  written  them  out  he  lay  back  on  the  lumpy 
pillow,  murmuring  them  again.  The  lumps  of  knotted 
flock  under  his  head  reminded  him  of  the  lumps  of 
knotted  horsehair  in  the  sofa  of  her  parlour  on  which  he 
used  to  sit,  smiling  or  serious,  asking  himself  why  he 
had  come,  displeased .  with  her  and  with  himself,  con- 
founded by  the  print  of  the  Saered  Heart  above  the 
untenanted  sideboard.  He  saw  her  approach  him  in  a 
lull  of  the  talk  and  beg  him  to  sing  one  of  his  curious 
songs.  Then  he  saw  himself  sitting  at  the  old  piano, 
striking  chords  softly  from  its  speckled  keys  and  sing- 
ing, amid  the  talk  which  had  risen  again  in  the  room, 
to  her  who  leaned  beside  the  mantelpiece  a  dainty  song 
of  the  Elizabethans,  a  sad  and  sweet  loth  to  depart,  the 
victory  chant  of  Agincourt,  the  happy  air  of  Green- 
sleeves.  "While  he  sang  and  she  listened,  or  feigned  to 
listen  his  heart  was  at  rest  but  when  the  quaint  old 
songs  had  ended  and  he  heard  again  the  voices  in  the 
room  he  remembered  his  own  sarcasm:  the  house  where 
young  men  are  called  by  their  christian  names  a  little 
too  soon. 

At  certain  instants  her  eyes  seemed  about  to  trust  him 
but  he  had  waited  in  vain.  She  passed  now  dancing 
lightly  across  his  memory  as  she  had  been  that  night 
at  the  carnival  ball,  her  white  dress  a  little  lifted,  a 
white  spray  nodding  in  her  hair.  She  danced  lightly 
in  the  round.  She  was  dancing  towards  him  and,  as  she 
came,  her  eyes  were  a  little  averted  and  a  faint  glow 

[257] 


was  on  her  cheek.    At  the  pause  in  the  chain  of  hands 
her  hand  had  lain  in  his  an  instant,  a  soft  merchandise. 

—  You  are  a  great  stranger  now. — 

—  Yes.    I  was  bom  to  be  a  monk. — 

—  I  am  afraid  you  are  a  heretic. — 

—  Are  you  much  afraid?  — 

For  answer  she  had  danced  away  from  him  along  the 
chain  of  hands,  dancing  lightly  and  discreetly,  giving 
herself  to  none.  The  white  spray  nodded  to  her  dancing 
and  when  she  was  in  shadow  the  glow  was  deeper  on 
her  cheek. 

A  monk !  His  own  image  started  forth  a  prof aner  of 
the  cloister,  a  heretic  Franciscan,  willing  and  willing 
not  to  serve,  spinning  like  Gherardino  da  Borgo  San 
Donnino,  a  lithe  web  of  sophistry  and  whispering  in  her 
ear. 

No,  it  was  not  his  image.  It  was  like  the  image  of 
the  young  priest  in  whose  company  he  had  seen  her 
last,  looking  at  him  out  of  dove's  eyes,  toying  with  the 
pages  of  her  Irish  phrasebook. 

—  Yes,  yes,  the  ladies  are  coming  round  to  us.  I  can 
see  it  every  day.  The  ladies  are  with  us.  The  best 
helpers  the  language  has. — 

—  And  the  church.  Father  Moran  ?  — 

—  The  church  too.  Coming  round  too.  The  work  is 
going  ahead  there  too.     Don't  fret  about  the  church. — 

Bah !  he  had  done  well  to  leave  the  room  in  disdain. 
He  had  done  well  not  to  salute  her  on  the  steps  of  the 
library.  He  had  done  well  to  leave  her  to  flirt  with  her 
priest,  to  toy  with  a  church  which  was  the  scullery-maid 
of  Christendom. 

Rude  brutal  anger  routed  the  last  lingering  instant  of 
ecstasy  from  his  soul.    It  broke  up  violently  her  fair 

[258] 


image  and  flung  the  fragments  on  all  sides.  On  all  sides 
distorted  reflections  of  her  image  started  from  his 
memory:  the  flower  girl  in  the  ragged  dress  with  damp 
coarse  hair  and  a  hoyden's  face  who  had  called  herself 
his  own  girl  and  begged  his  handsel,  the  kitchen-girl  in 
the  next  house  who  sang  over  the  clatter  of  her  plates, 
with  the  drawl  of  a  country  singer,  the  first  bars  of 
By  Killarney's  Lakes  and  Fells,  a  girl  who  had  laughed 
gaily  to  see  him  stumble  when  the  iron  grating  in  the 
footpath  near  Cork  Hill  had  caught  the  broken  sole  of 
his  shoe,  a  girl  he  had  glanced  at,  attracted  by  her  small 
ripe  mouth  as  she  passed  out  of  Jacob's  biscuit  factory, 
who  had  cried  to  him  over  her  shoulder : 

—  Do  you  like  what  you  seen  of  me,  straight  hair  and 
curly  eyebrows  1  — 

And  yet  he  felt  that,  however  he  might  revile  and 
mock  her  image,  his  anger  was  also  a  form  of  homage. 
He  had  left  the  classroom  in  disdain  that  was  not  wholly 
sincere,  feeling  that  perhaps  the  secret  of  her  race  lay 
behind  those  dark  eyes  upon  which  her  long  lashes  flung 
a  quick  shadow.  He  had  told  himself  bitterly  as  he 
walked  through  the  streets  that  she  was  a  figure  of  the 
womanhood  of  her  country,  a  batlike  soul  waking  to  the 
consciousness  of  itself  in  darkness  and  secrecy  and  lone- 
liness, tarrying  awhile,  loveless  and  sinless,  with  her  mild 
lover  and  leaving  him  to  whisper  of  innocent  transgres- 
sions in  the  latticed  ear  of  a  priest.  His  anger  against 
her  found  vent  in  coarse  railing  at  her  paramour,  whose 
name  and  voice  and  features  offended  his  baffled  pride: 
a  priested  peasant,  with  a  brother  a  policeman  in  Dublin 
and  a  brother  a  potboy  in  Moycullen.  To  him  she  would 
unveil  her  soul's  shy  nakedness,  to  one  who  was  but 
schooled  in  the  discharging  of  a  formal  rite  rather  than 

[259] 


to  him,  a  priest  of  the  eternal  imagination,  transmuting 
the  daily  bread  of  experience  into  the  radiant  body  of 
everliving  life. 

The  radiant  image  of  the  eucharist  united  again  in  an 
instant  his  bitter  and  despairing  thoughts,  their  cries 
arising  unbroken  in  a  hymn  of  thanksgiving. 

Our  broken  cries  and  mournful  lays 
Rise  in  one  eucharistic  hymn 

Are  you  not  weary  of  ardent  ways? 
While  sacrificing  hands  upraise 
The  chalice  flowing  to  the  brim 

Tell  no  more  of  enchanted  days. 

He  spoke  the  verses  aloud  from  the  first  lines  till  the 
music  and  rhythm  suffused  his  mind,  turning  it  to 
quiet  indulgence;  then  copied  them  painfully  to  feel 
them  the  better  by  seeing  them;  then  lay  back  on  his 
bolster. 

The  full  morning  light  had  come.  No  sound  was  to 
be  heard:  but  he  knew  that  all  around  him  life  was 
about  to  awaken  in  common  noises,  hoarse  voices,  sleepy 
prayers.  Shrinking  from  that  life  he  turned  towards 
the  wall,  making  a  cowl  of  the  blanket  and  staring  at  the 
great  overblown  scarlet  flowers  of  the  tattered  wallpaper. 
He  tried  to  warm  his  perishing  joy  in  their  scarlet  glow, 
imaging  a  roseway  from  where  he  lay  upwards  to  heaven 
all  strewn  with  scarlet  flowers.  "Weary!  Weary!  He 
too  was  weary  of  ardent  ways. 

A  gradual  warmth,  a  languorous  weariness  passed 
over  him,  descending  along  his  spine  from  his  closely 
cowled  head.  He  felt  it  descend  and,  seeing  himself  as 
he  lay,  smiled.    Soon  he  would  sleep. 

[260] 


He  had  written  verses  for  her  again  after  ten  years. 
Ten  years  before  she  had  worn  her  shawl  cowlwise 
about  her  head,  sending  sprays  of  her  warm  breath  into 
the  night  air,  tapping  her  foot  upon  the  glassy  road. 
It  was  the  last  tram;  the  lank  brown  horses  knew  it 
and  shook  their  bells  to  the  clear  night  in  admonition. 
The  conductor  talked  with  the  driver,  both  nodding  often 
in  the  green  light  of  the  lamp.  They  stood  on  the  steps 
of  the  tram,  he  on  the  upper,  she  on  the  lower.  She 
came  up  to  his  step  many  times  between  their  phrases 
and  went  down  again  and  once  or  twice  remained  beside 
him  forgetting  to  go  down  and  then  went  down.  Let  be ! 
Let  be ! 

Ten  years  from  that  wisdom  of  children  to  his  folly. 
If  he  sent  her  the  verses?  They  would  be  read  out  at 
breakfast  amid  the  tapping  of  eggshells.  Folly  indeed ! 
Her  brothers  would  laugh  and  try  to  wrest  the  page 
from  each  other  with  their  strong  hard  fingers.  The 
suave  priest,  her  uncle,  seated  in  his  armchair  would 
hold  the  page  at  arm's  length,  read  it  smiling  and  ap- 
prove of  the  literary  form. 

No,  no :  that  was  folly.  Even  if  he  sent  her  the  verses 
she  would  not  show  them  to  others.  No,  no:  she  could 
not. 

He  began  to  feel  that  he  had  wronged  her.  A  sense 
of  her  innocence  moved  him  almost  to  pity  her,  an 
innocence  he  had  never  understood  till  he  had  come  to 
the  knowledge  of  it  through  sin,  an  innocence  which 
she  too  had  not  understood  while  she  was  innocent  or 
before  the  strange  humiliation  of  her  nature  had  first 
come  upon  her.  Then  first  her  soul  had  begun  to  live 
as  his  soul  had  when  he  had  first  sinned :  and  a  tender 
compassion  filled  his  heart  as  he  remembered  her  frail 

[261] 


pallor  and  her  eyes,  humbled  and  saddened  by  the  dark 
shame  of  womanhood. 

While  his  soul  had  passed  from  ecstasy  to  languor 
where  had  she  been?  Might  it  be,  in  the  mysterious 
ways  of  spiritual  life,  that  her  soul  at  those  same 
moments  had  been  conscious  of  his  homage?  It  might 
be. 

A  glow  of  desire  kindled  again  his  soul  and  fired  and 
fulfilled  all  his  body.  Conscious  of  his  desire  she  was 
waking  from  odorous  sleep,  the  temptress  of  his  villanelle. 
Her  eyes,  dark  and  with  a  look  of  languor,  were  opening 
to  his  eyes.  Her  nakedness  yielded  to  him,  radiant, 
warm  odorous  and  lavish  limbed,  enfolded  him  like  a 
shining  cloud,  enfolded  him  like  water  with  a  liquid 
life:  and  like  a  cloud  of  vapour  or  like  waters  circum- 
fluent in  space  the  liquid  letters  of  speech,  symbols  of 
the  element  of  mystery,  flowed  forth  over  his  brain. 

Are  you  not  weary  of  ardent  ways, 
Lure  of  the  fallen  seraphim  f 
Tell  no  more  of  enchanted  days. 

Your  eyes  have  set  man's  heart  ablaze 
And  you  have  had  your  will  of  him. 
Are  you  not  weary  of  ardent  ways? 

Above  the  flame  the  smoke  of  praise 
Goes  up  from  ocean  rim  to  rim. 
Tell  no  more  of  enchanted  days. 

Oiir  broken  cries  and  mournful  lays 
Rise  in  one  eucharistic  hymn. 
Are  you  not  weary  of  ardent  ways? 
[262] 


While  sacrificing  hands  upraise 
The  chalice  flowing  to  the  hrim. 
Tell  no  more  of  enchanted  days. 

And  still  you  hold  our  longing  gaze 
With  languorous  look  and  lavish  limb! 
Are  you  not  weary  of  ardent  ways? 
Tell  no  more  of  enchanted  days. 


What  birds  were  they  1  He  stood  on  the  steps  of  the 
library  to  look  at  them,  leaning  wearily  on  his  ashplant. 
They  flew  round  and  round  the  jutting  shoulder  of  a 
house  in  Molesworth  Street.  The  air  of  the  late  March 
evening  made  clear  their  flight,  their  dark  darting  quiv- 
ering bodies  flying  clearly  against  the  sky  as  against  a 
limp  hung  cloth  of  smoky  tenuous  blue. 

He  watched  their  flight ;  bird  after  bird :  a  dark  flash, 
a  swerve,  a  flutter  of  wings.  He  tried  to  count  them 
before  all  their  darting  quivering  bodies  passed:  Six, 
ten,  eleven:  and  wondered  were  they  odd  or  even  in 
number.  Twelve,  thirteen :  for  two  came  wheeling  down 
from  the  upper  sky.  They  were  flying  high  and  low  but 
ever  round  and  round  in  straight  and  curving  lines  and 
ever  flying  from  left  to  right,  circling  about  a  temple 
of  air. 

He  listened  to  the  cries:  like  the  squeak  of  mice  be- 
hind the  wainscot :  a  shrill  twofold  note.  But  the  notes 
were  long  and  shrill  and  whirring,  unlike  the  cry  of 
vermin,  falling  a  third  or  a  fourth  and  trilled  as  the 
flying  beaks  clove  the  air.  Their  cry  was  shrill  and 
clear  and  fine  and  falling  like  threads  of  silken  light 
unwound  from  whirring  spools. 

[263] 


The  inhuman  clamour  soothed  his  ears  in  which  his 
mother's  sobs  and  reproaches  murmured  insistently  and 
the  dark  frail  quivering  bodies  wheeling  and  fluttering 
and  swerving  round  an  airy  temple  of  the  tenuous  sky 
soothed  his  eyes  which  still  saw  the  image  of  his  mother's 
face. 

Why  was  he  gazing  upwards  from  the  steps  of  the 
porch,  hearing  their  shrill  twofold  cry,  watching  their 
flight?  For  an  augury  of  good  or  evil?  A  phrase 
of  Cornelius  Agrippa  flew  through  his  mind  and  then 
there  flew  hither  and  thither  shapeless  thoughts  from 
Swedenborg  on  the  correspondence  of  birds  to  things 
of  the  intellect  and  of  how  the  creatures  of  the  air  have 
their  knowledge  and  know  their  times  and  seasons  be- 
cause they,  unlike  man,  are  in  the  order  of  their  life 
and  have  not  perverted  that  order  by  reason. 

And  for  ages  men  had  gazed  upward  as  he  was  gazing 
at  birds  in  flight.  The  colonnade  above  him  made  him 
think  vaguely  of  an  ancient  temple  and  the  ashplant 
on  which  he  leaned  wearily  of  the  curved  stick  of  an 
augur.  A  sense  of  fear  of  the  unknown  moved  in  the 
heart  of  his  weariness,  a  fear  of  symbols  and  portents, 
of  the  hawklike  man  whose  name  he  bore  soaring  out  of 
his  captivity  on  osier  woven  wings,  of  Thoth,  the  god 
of  writers,  writing  with  a  reed  upon  a  tablet  and  bearing 
on  his  narrow  ibis  head  the  cusped  moon. 

He  smiled  as  he  thought  of  the  god's  image,  for  it 
made  him  think  of  a  bottle-nosed  judge  in  a  wig,  putting 
commas  into  a  document  which  he  held  at  arm's  length 
and  he  knew  that  he  would  not  have  remembered  the 
god's  name  but  that  it  was  like  an  Irish  oath.  It  was 
folly.  But  was  it  for  this  folly  that  he  was  about  to 
leave  for  ever  the  house  of  prayer  and  prudence  into 

[264] 


which  he  had  been  born  and  the  order  of  life  out  of 
which  he  had  come  ? 

They  came  back  with  shrill  cries  over  the  jutting 
shoulder  of  the  house,  flying  darkly  against  the  fading 
air.  What  birds  were  they  ?  He  thought  that  they  must 
be  swallows  who  had  come  back  from  the  south.  Then 
he  was  to  go  away  ?  for  they  were  birds  ever  going  and 
coming,  building  ever  an  unlasting  home  under  the  eaves 
of  men's  houses  and  ever  leaving  the  homes  they  had 
built  to  wander. 

Bend  down  your  faces,  Oona  and  Aleel, 
I  gaze  upon  them  as  the  swallow  gazes 
Upon  the  nest  under  the  eave  before 
He  wander  the  loud  waters. 

A  soft  liquid  joy  like  the  noise  of  many  waters  flowed 
over  his  memory  and  he  felt  in  his  heart  the  soft  peace 
of  silent  spaces  of  fading  tenuous  sky  above  the  waters, 
of  oceanic  silence,  of  swallows  flying  through  the  seadusk 
over  the  flowing  waters. 

A  soft  liquid  joy  flowed  through  the  words  where  the 
soft  long  vowels  hurtled  noiselessly  and  fell  away, 
lapping  and  flowing  back  and  ever  shaking  the  white 
bells  of  their  waves  in  mute  chime  and  mute  peal  and 
soft  low  swooning  cry;  and  he  felt  that  the  augury 
he  had  sought  in  the  wheeling  darting  birds  and  in  the 
pale  space  of  sky  above  him  had  come  forth  from  his 
heart  like  a  bird  from  a  turret  quietly  and  swiftly. 

Symbol  of  departure  or  of  loneliness?  The  verses 
crooned  in  the  ear  of  his  memory  composed  slowly  before 
his  remembering  eyes  the  scene  of  the  hall  on  the  night 
of  the  opening  of  the  national  theatre.    He  was  alone 

[265] 


at  the  side  of  the  balcony,  looking  out  of  jaded  eyes  at 
the  culture  of  Dublin  in  the  stalls  and  at  the  tawdry 
scenecloths  and  human  dolls  framed  by  the  garish  lamps 
of  the  stage.  A  burly  policeman  sweated  behind  him 
and  seemed  at  every  moment  about  to  act.  The  catcalls 
and  hisses  and  mocking  cries  ran  in  rude  gusts  round  the 
hall  from  his  scattered  fellow  students. 

—  A  libel  on  Ireland !  — 

—  Made  in  Germany  — 

—  Blasphemy !  — 

—  We  never  sold  our  faith !  — 

—  No  Irish  woman  ever  did  it!  — 

—  We  want  no  amateur  atheist. — 

—  We  want  no  budding  buddhists.— 

A  sudden  swift  hiss  fell  from  the  windows  above  him 
and  he  knew  that  the  electric  lamps  had  been  switched 
on  in  the  reader's  room.  He  turned  into  the  pillared 
hall,  now  calmly  lit,  went  up  the  staircase  and  passed 
in  through  the  clicking  turnstile. 

Cranly  was  sitting  over  near  the  dictionaries.  A  thick 
book,  opened  at  the  frontispiece,  lay  before  him  on  the 
wooden  rest.  He  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  inclining  his 
ear  like  that  of  a  confessor  to  the  face  of  the  medical 
student  who  was  reading  to  him  a  problem  from  the 
chess  page  of  a  journal.  Stephen  sat  down  at  his  right 
and  the  priest  at  the  other  side  of  the  table  closed  his 
copy  of  The  Tablet  with  an  angry  snap  and  stood  up. 

Cranly  gazed  after  him  blandly  and  vaguely.  The 
medical  student  went  on  in  a  softer  voice : 

—  Pawn  to  king's  fourth. — 

—  We  had  better  go,  Dixon  —  said  Stephen  in  warn- 
ing.—  He  has  gone  to  complain. — 

[266] 


Dixon  folded  the  journal  and  rose  with  dignity,  say- 
ing: 

—  Our  men  retired  in  good  order. — 

—  With  guns  and  cattle  —  added  Stephen,  pointing  to 
the  titlepage  of  Cranly  's  book  on  which  was  written  Dis- 
eases of  the  Ox. 

As  they  passed  through  a  lane  of  the  tables  Stephen 
said: 

—  Cranly,  I  want  to  speak  to  you. — 

Cranly  did  not  answer  or  turn.  He  laid  his  book  on 
the  counter  and  passed  out,  his  well  shod  feet  sounding 
flatly  on  the  floor.  On  the  staircase  he  paused  and 
gazing  absently  at  Dixon  repeated : 

—  Pawn  to  king's  bloody  fourth. — 

—  Put  it  that  way  if  you  like  —  Dixon  said. 

He  had  a  quiet  toneless  voice  and  urbane  manners 
and  on  a  finger  of  his  plump  clean  hand  he  displayed  at 
moments  a  signet  ring. 

As  they  crossed  the  hall  a  man  of  dwarfish  stature 
came  towards  them.  Under  the  dome  of  his  tiny  hat 
his  unshaven  face  began  to  smile  with  pleasure  and  he 
was  heard  to  murmur.  The  eyes  were  melancholy  as 
those  of  a  monkey. 

—  Good  evening,  gentlemen  —  said  the  stubble  grown 
monkeyish  face. 

—  Warm  weather  for  March  —  said  Cranly. —  They 
have  the  windows  open  upstairs. — 

Dixon  smiled  and  turned  his  ring.  The  blackish 
monkey  puckered  face  pursed  its  human  mouth  with 
gentle  pleasure  and  its  voice  purred : 

—  Delightful  weather  for  March.  Simply  delight- 
ful.— 

[267] 


—  There  are  two  nice  young  ladies  upstairs,  captain, 
tired  of  waiting  —  Dixon  said. 

Cranly  smiled  and  said  kindly : 

—  The  captain  has  only  one  love:  sir  Walter  Scott. 
Isn't  that  so,  captain?  — 

—  What  are  you  reading  now,  captain?  —  Dixon 
asked. —  The  Bride  of  Lammermoorf  — 

—  I  love  old  Scott  —  the  flexible  lips  said  —  I  think 
he  writes  something  lovely.  There  is  no  writer  can 
touch  sir  Walter  Scott. — 

He  moved  a  thin  shrunken  brown  hand  gently  in  the 
air  in  time  to  his  praise  and  his  thin  quick  eyelids  beat 
often  over  his  sad  eyes. 

Sadder  to  Stephen's  ear  was  his  speech:  a  genteel  ac- 
cent, low  and  moist,  marred  by  errors:  and,  listening 
to  it,  he  wondered  was  the  story  true  and  was  the  thin 
blood  that  flowed  in  his  shrunken  frame  noble  and  come 
of  an  incestuous  love  ? 

The  park  trees  were  heavy  with  rain  and  rain  fell 
still  and  ever  in  the  lake,  lying  grey  like  a  shield.  A 
game  of  swans  flew  there  and  the  water  and  the  shore 
beneath  were  fouled  with  their  greenwhite  slime.  They 
embraced  softly  impelled  by  the  grey  rainy  light,  the 
wet  silent  trees,  the  shield  like  witnessing  lake,  the 
swans.  They  embraced  without  joy  or  passion,  his 
arm  about  his  sister's  neck.  A  grey  woollen  cloak  was 
wrapped  athwart  her  from  her  shoulder  to  her  waist: 
and  her  fair  head  was  bent  in  willing  shame.  He  had 
loose  redbrown  hair  and  tender  shapely  strong  freckled 
hands.  Face?  There  was  no  face  seen.  The  brother's 
face  was  bent  upon  her  fair  rain  fragrant  hair.  The 
hand  freckled  and  strong  and  shapely  and  caressing 
was  Davin's  hand. 

[268] 


He  frowned  angrily  upon  his  thought  and  on  the 
shrivelled  mannikin  who  had  called  it  forth.  His 
father's  gibes  at  the  Bantry  gang  leaped  out  of  his 
memory.  He  held  them  at  a  distance  and  brooded  un- 
easily on  his  own  thought  again.  Why  were  they  not 
Cranly's  hands?  Had  Davin's  simplicity  and  innocence 
stung  him  more  secretly  ? 

He  walked  on  across  the  hall  with  Dixon,  leaving 
Cranly  to  take  leave  elaborately  of  the  dwarf. 

Under  the  colonnade  Temple  was  standing  in  the  midst 
of  a  little  group  of  students.     One  of  them  cried: 

—  Dixon,  come  over  till  you  hear.  Temple  is  in  grand 
form. — 

Temple  turned  on  him  his  dark  gipsy  eyes. 

—  You're  a  hypocrite,  O'Keefife  —  he  said. —  And 
Dixon  is  a  smiler.  By  hell,  I  think  that's  a  good  literary 
expression. — 

He  laughed  slily,  looking  in  Stephen's  face,  repeat- 
ing: 

—  By  hell,  I'm  delighted  with  that  name.     A  smiler. — 
A  stout  student  who  stood  below  them  on  the  steps 

said: 

—  Come  back  to  the  mistress,  Temple.  We  want  to 
hear  about  that. — 

—  He  had,  faith  —  Temple  said. —  And  he  was  a  mar- 
ried man  too.  And  all  the  priests  used  to  be  dining 
there.     By  hell,  I  think  they  all  had  a  touch. — 

—  We  shall  call  it  riding  a  hack  to  spare  the  hunter  — 
said  Dixon. 

—  Tell  us,  Temple  —  O'Keeffe  said  —  how  many 
quarts  of  porter  have  you  in  you  ?  — 

—  All  your  intellectual  soul  is  in  that  phrase,  O  'Keeffe 
—  said  Temple  with  open  scorn. 

[269] 


He  moved  with  a  shambling  gait  round  the  group  and 
spoke  to  Stephen. 

—  Did  you  know  that  the  Forsters  are  the  kings  of 
Belgium  ?  —  he  asked. 

Cranly  came  out  through  the  door  of  the  entrance 
hall,  his  hat  thrust  back  on  the  nape  of  his  neck  and  pick- 
ing his  teeth  with  care. 

—  And  here's  the  wiseacre  —  said  Temple. —  Do  you 
know  that  about  the  Forsters?  — 

He  paused  for  an  answer.  Cranly  dislodged  a  fig  seed 
from  his  teeth  on  the  point  of  his  rude  toothpick  and 
gazed  at  it  intently. 

—  The  Forster  family  —  Temple  said  —  is  descended 
from  Baldwin  the  First,  king  of  Flanders.  He  was 
called  the  Forester.  Forester  and  Forster,  are  the  same 
name.  A  descendant  of  Baldwin  the  First,  captain 
Francis  Forster,  settled  in  Ireland  and  married  the 
daughter  of  the  last  chieftain  of  Clanbrassil.  Then  there 
are  the  Blake  Forsters.     That's  a  different  branch. — 

—  From  Baldhead,  king  of  Flanders. —  Cranly  re- 
peated, rooting  again  deliberately  at  his  gleaming  uncov- 
ered teeth. 

—  Where  did  you  pick  up  all  that  history  ?  —  0  'Keeffe 
asked. 

—  I  know  all  the  history  of  your  family  too  —  Temple 
said,  turning  to  Stephen.  —  Do  you  know  what  Giraldus 
Cambrensis  says  about  your  family  ?  — 

—  Is  he  descended  from  Baldwin  too  ?  —  asked  a  tall 
consumptive  student  with  dark  eyes. 

—  Baldhead  —  Cranly  repeated,  sucking  at  a  crevice 
in  his  teeth. 

—  Pernobilis  et  pervetusta  familia  —  Temple  said  to 
Stephen. 

[270] 


The  stout  student  who  stood  below  them  on  the  steps 
farted  briefly.  Dixon  turned  towards  him  saying  in  a 
soft  voice : 

—  Did  an  angel  speak  ? 

Cranly  turned  also  and  said  vehemently  but  without 
anger : 

—  Goggins,  you're  the  flamingest  dirty  devil  I  ever 
met,  do  you  know. — 

—  I  had  it  on  my  mind  to  say  that  —  Goggins  an- 
swered firmly. —  It  did  no  one  any  harm,  did  it  ?  — 

—  We  hope  —  Dixon  said  suavely  —  that  it  was  not 
of  the  kind  known  to  science  as  a  paulo  post  futurum. — 

—  Didn't  I  tell  you  he  was  a  smiler?  —  said  Temple, 
turning  right  and  left. —  Didn't  I  give  him  that  name?  — 

—  You  did.  We're  not  deaf  —  said  the  tall  consump- 
tive. 

Cranly  still  frowned  at  the  stout  student  below  him. 
Then,  with  a  snort  of  disgust,  he  shoved  him  violently 
down  the  steps. 

—  Go  away  from  here  —  he  said  rudely. —  Go  away, 
you  stinkpot.    And  you  are  a  stinkpot. — 

Goggins  skipped  down  on  to  the  gravel  and  at  once 
returned  to  his  place  with  good  humour.  Temple  turned 
back  to  Stephen  and  asked : 

—  Do  you  believe  in  the  law  of  heredity  ?  — 

—  Are  you  drunk  or  what  are  you  or  what  are  you  try- 
ing to  say  ?  —  asked  Cranly,  facing  round  on  him  with  an 
expression  of  wonder. 

—  The  most  profound  sentence  ever  written  —  Temple 
said  with  enthusiasm  —  is  the  sentence  at  the  end  of  the 
zoology.    Reproduction  is  the  beginning  of  death. — 

He  touched  Stephen  timidly  at  the  elbow  and  said 
eagerly : 

[271] 


—  Do  you  feel  how  profound  that  is  because  you  are  a 
poet?  — 

Cranly  pointed  his  long  forefinger. 

—  Look  at  him !  —  he  said  with  scorn  to  the  others  — 
Look  at  Ireland's  hope !  — 

They  laughed  at  his  words  and  gesture.  Temple 
turned  on  him  bravely,  saying : 

—  Cranly,  you're  always  sneering  at  me.  I  can  seen 
that.  But  I  am  as  good  as  you  any  day.  Do  you  know 
what  I  think  about  you  now  as  compared  with  myself  ?  — 

—  My  dear  man  —  said  Cranly  urbanely  —  you  are 
incapable,  do  you  know,  absolutely  incapable  of  think- 
ing.— 

—  But  do  you  know  —  Temple  went  on  —  what  I  think 
of  you  and  of  myself  compared  together  ?  — 

—  Out  with  it,  Temple !  —  the  stout  student  cried  from 
the  steps. —  Get  it  out  in  bits !  — 

Temple  turned  right  and  left,  making  sudden  feeble 
gestures  as  he  spoke. 

—  I'm  a  ballocks  —  he  said,  shaking  his  head  in  de- 
spair—  I  am  and  I  know  am.  And  I  admit  it  that  I 
am. — 

Dixon  patted  him  lightly  on  the  shoulder  and  said 
mildly : 

—  And  it  does  you  every  credit.  Temple. — 

—  But  he  —  Temple  said,  pointing  to  Cranly  —  he  is  a 
ballocks,  too,  like  me.  Only  he  doesn't  know  it.  And 
that's  the  only  difference,  I  see. — 

A  burst  of  laughter  covered  his  words.  But  he  turned 
again  to  Stephen  and  said  with  a  sudden  eagerness : 

—  That  word  is  a  most  interesting  word.  That's  the 
only  English  dual  number.     Did  you  know  ?  — 

—  Is  it  ?  —  Stephen  said  vaguely. 

[272] 


He  was  watching  Cranly's  firm  featured  suffering 
face,  lit  up  now  by  a  smile  of  false  patience.  The  gross 
name  had  passed  over  it  like  foul  water  poured  over 
an  old  stone  image,  patient  of  injuries:  and,  as  he 
watched  him,  he  saw  him  raise  his  hat  in  salute  and  un- 
cover the  black  hair  that  Stood  up  stiffly  from  his  fore- 
head like  an  iron  crown. 

She  passed  out  from  the  porch  of  the  library  and 
bowed  across  Stephen  in  reply  to  Cranly's  greeting. 
He  also?  Was  there  not  a  slight  flush  on  Cranly's 
cheek?  Or  had  it  come  forth  at  Temple's  words?  The 
light  had  waned.    He  could  not  see. 

Did  that  explain  his  friend's  listless  silence,  his  harsh 
comments,  the  sudden  intrusions  of  rude  speech  with 
which  he  had  shattered  so  often  Stephen's  ardent  way- 
ward confessions?  Stephen  had  forgiven  freely  for  he 
had  found  this  rudeness  also  in  himself.  And  he  remem- 
bered an  evening  when  he  had  dismounted  from  a  bor- 
rowed creaking  bicycle  to  pray  to  God  in  a  wood  near 
Malahide.  He  had  lifted  up  his  arms  and  spoken  in 
ecstasy  to  the  sombre  nave  of  the  trees,  knowing  that  he 
stood  on  holy  ground  and  in  a  holy  hour.  And  when 
two  constabulary  men  had  come  into  sight  round  a  bend 
in  the  gloomy  road  he  had  broken  off  his  prayer  to 
whistle  loudly  an  air  from  the  last  pantomime. 

He  began  to  beat  the  frayed  end  of  his  ashplant  against 
the  base  of  a  pillar.  Had  Cranly  not  heard  him?  Yet 
he  could  wait.  The  talk  about  him  ceased  for  a  moment : 
and  a  soft  hiss  fell  again  from  a  window  above.  But  no 
other  sound  was  in  the  air  and  the  swallows  whose  flight 
had  followed  with  idle  eyes  were  sleeping. 

She  had  passed  through  the  dusk.  And  therefore  the 
air  was  silent  save  for  one  soft  hiss  that  fell,    And  there- 

[2731 


fore  the  tongues  about  him  had  ceased  their  babble. 
Darkness  was  falling. 

Darkness  falls  from  the  air, 

A  trembling  joy,  lambent  as  a  faint  light,  played  like 
a  fairy  host  around  him.  But  why?  Her  passage 
through  the  darkening  air  or  the  verse  with  its  black 
vowels  and  its  opening  sound,  rich  and  lutelike  ? 

He  walked  away  slowly  towards  the  deeper  shadows 
at  the  end  of  the  colonnade,  beating  the  stone  softly 
with  his  stick  to  hide  his  revery  from  the  students 
whom  he  had  left :  and  allowed  his  mind  to  summon  back 
to  itself  the  age  of  Dowland  and  Byrd  and  Nash. 

Eyes,  opening  from  the  darkness  of  desire,  eyes  that 
dimmed  the  breaking  east.  What  was  their  languid 
grace  but  the  softness  of  chambering?  And  what  was 
their  shimmer  but  the  shimmer  of  the  scum  that  mantled 
the  cesspool  of  the  court  of  a  slobbering  Stuart.  And 
he  tasted  in  the  language  of  memory  ambered  wines, 
dying  fallings  of  sweet  airs,  the  proud  pavan:  and  saw 
with  the  eyes  of  memory  kind  gentlewomen  in  Covent 
Garden  wooing  from  their  balconies  with  sucking  mouths 
and  the  pox  fouled  wenches  of  the  taverns  and  young 
wives  that,  gaily  yielding  to  their  ravishers,  clipped  and 
clipped  again. 

The  images  he  had  summoned  gave  him  no  pleasure. 
They  were  secret  and  enflaming  but  her  image  was  not 
entangled  by  them.  That  was  not  the  way  to  think  of 
her.  It  was  not  even  the  way  in  which  he  thought  of 
her.  Could  his  mind  then  not  trust  itself  ?  Old  phrases, 
sweet  only  with  a  disinterred  sweetness  like  the  fig  seeds 
Cranly  rooted  out  of  his  gleaming  teeth. 

1274] 


It  was  not  thought  nor  vision,  though  he  knew  vaguely 
that  her  figure  was  passing  homeward  through  the  city. 
Vaguely  first  and  then  more  sharply  he  smelt  her  body. 
A  conscious  unrest  seethed  in  his  blood.  Yes,  it  was 
her  body  he  smelt :  a  wild  and  languid  smell :  the  tepid 
limbs  over  which  his  music  had  flowed  desirously  and 
the  secret  soft  linen  upon  which  her  flesh  distilled  odour 
and  a  dew. 

A  louse  crawled  over  the  nape  of  his  neck  and,  putting 
his  thumb  and  forefinger  deftly  beneath  his  loose  collar, 
he  caught  it.  He  rolled  its  body,  tender  yet  brittle  as  a 
grain  of  rice,  between  thumb  and  finger  for  an  instant 
before  he  let  it  fall  from  him  and  wondered  would 
it  live  or  die.  There  came  to  his  mind  a  curious  phrase 
from  Cornelius  a  Lapide  which  said  that  the  lice  born 
of  human  sweat  were  not  created  by  God  with  the  other 
animals  on  the  sixth  day.  But  the  tickling  of  the  skin 
of  his  neck  made  his  mind  raw  and  red.  The  life  of  his 
body,  ill  clad,  ill  fed,  louse  eaten,  made  him  close  his 
eyelids  in  a  sudden  spasm  of  despair :  and  in  the  dark- 
ness he  saw  the  brittle  bright  bodies  of  lice  falling  from 
the  air  and  turning  often  as  they  fell.  Yes ;  and  it  was 
not  darkness  that  fell  from  the  air.    It  was  brightness. 

Brightness  falls  from  the  air. 

He  had  not  even  remembered  rightly  Nash's  line.  All 
the  images  it  had  awakened  were  false.  His  mind  bred 
vermin.  His  thoughts  were  lice  born  of  the  sweat  of 
sloth. 

He  came  back  quickly  along  the  colonnade  towards 
the  group  of  students.  Well  then  let  her  go  and  be 
damned  to  her !    She  could  love  some  clean  athlete  who 

[275J, 


washed  himself  every  morning  to  the  waist  and  had  black 
hair  on  his  chest.     Let  her. 

Cranly  had  taken  another  dried  fig  from  the  supply 
in  his  pocket  and  was  eating  it  slowly  and  noisily. 
Temple  sat  on  the  pediment  of  a  pillar,  leaning  back, 
his  cap  pulled  down  on  his  sleepy  eyes.  A  squat  young 
man  came  out  of  the  porch,  a  leather  portfolio  tucked 
under  his  armpit.  He  marched  towards  the  group,  strik- 
ing the  flags  with  the  heels  of  his  boots  and  with  the  fer- 
rule of  his  heavy  umbrella.  Then,  raising  the  umbrella 
in  salute,  he  said  to  all : 

—  Good  evening,  sirs. — 

He  struck  the  flags  again  and  tittered  while  his  head 
trembled  with  a  slight  nervous  movement.  The  tall 
consumptive  student  and  Dixon  and  O'Keeffe  were 
speaking  in  Irish  and  did  not  answer  him.  Then,  turn- 
ing to  Cranly,  he  said : 

—  Good  evening,  particularly  to  you. — 

He  moved  the  umbrella  in  indication  and  tittered 
again.  Cranly,  who  was  still  chewing  the  fig,  answered 
with  loud  movements  of  his  jaws. 

—  Good  ?    Yes.    It  is  a  good  evening. — 

The  squat  student  looked  at  him  seriously  and  shook 
his  umbrella  gently  and  reprovingly. 

—  I  can  see  —  he  said  —  that  you  are  about  to  make 
obvious  remarks. — 

—  Um  —  Cranly  answered,  holding  out  what  remained 
of  the  half  chewed  fig  and  jerking  it  towards  the  squat 
student's  mouth  in  sign  that  he  should  eat. 

The  squat  student  did  not  eat  it  but,  indulging  his 
special  humour,  said  gravely,  still  tittering  ^ud  prodding 
his  phrase  with  his  umbrella : 

—  Do  you  intend  that  .  .  . — 

[276] 


He  broke  off,  pointed  bluntly  to  the  munched  pulp  of 
the  fig  and  said  loudly : 

—  I  allude  to  that. — 

—  Um  —  Cranly  said  as  before. 

—  Do  you  intend  that  now  —  the  squat  student  said 
—  as  ipso  facto  or,  let  us  say,  as  so  to  speak  ?  — 

Dixon  turned  aside  from  his  group,  saying : 

—  Goggins  was  waiting  for  you,  Glynn.  He  has  gone 
round  to  the  Adelphi  to  look  for  you  and  Moynihan.. 
What  have  you  there  ?  —  he  asked,  tapping  the  portfolio 
under  Glynn's  arm. 

—  Examination  papers  —  Glynn  answered. —  I  give 
them  monthly  examinations  to  see  that  they  are  profiting 
by  my  tuition. — 

He  also  tapped  the  portfolio  and  coughed  gently  and 
smiled. 

—  Tuition!  —  said  Cranly  rudely. —  I  suppose  you 
mean  the  barefooted  children  that  are  taught  by  a  bloody 
ape  like  you.     God  help  them !  — 

He  bit  off  the  rest  of  the  fig  and  flung  away  the  butt. 

—  I  suffer  little  children  to  come  unto  me  —  Glynn 
said  amiably. 

—  A  bloody  ape  —  Cranly  repeated  with  emphasis  — 
and  a  blasphemous  bloody  ape !  — 

Temple  stood  up  and,  pushing  past  Cranly  addressed 
Glynn : 

—  That  phrase  you  said  now  —  he  said  —  is  from  the 
new  testament  about  suffer  the  children  to  come  to  me. — 

—  Go  to  sleep  again.  Temple  —  said  0  'Keeffe. 

—  Very  well,  then  —  Temple  continued,  still  addressing 
Glynn  —  and  if  Jesus  suffered  the  children  to  come  why 
does  the  church  send  them  all  to  bell  if  they  die  un- 
baptised?    Why  is  that?  — 

[277] 


—  Were  you  baptised  yourself,  Temple  ?  —  the  con- 
sumptive student  asked. 

—  But  why  are  they  sent  to  hell  if  Jesus  said  they  were 
all  to  come?  —  Temple  said,  his  eyes  searching  Glynn's 
eyes. 

Glynn  coughed  and  said  gently,  holding  back  with 
difficulty  the  nervous  titter  in  his  voice  and  moving  his 
umbrella  at  every  word : 

—  And,  as  you  remark,  if  it  is  thus  I  ask  emphatically 
whence  comes  this  thusness. — 

—  Because  the  church  is  cruel  like  all  old  sinners  — 
Temple  said. 

—  Are  you  quite  orthodox  on  that  point.  Temple  ?  — 
Dixon  said  suavely. 

—  Saint  Augustine  says  that  about  unbaptised  children 
going  to  hell  —  Temple  answered  —  because  he  was  a 
cruel  old  sinner  too. — 

—  I  bow  to  you  —  Dixon  said  —  but  I  had  the  impres- 
sion that  limbo  existed  for  such  cases. — 

■ — Don't  argue  with  him,  Dixon  —  Cranly  said 
brutally.  — Don't  talk  to  him  or  look  at  him.  Lead 
him  home  with  a  sugan  the  way  you'd  lead  a  bleating 
goat.— 

—  Limbo!  —  Temple  cried. —  That's  a  fine  invention 
too.    Like  hell. — 

—  But  with  the  unpleasantness  left  out  —  Dixon  said. 
He  turned  smiling  to  the  others  and  said : 

—  I  think  I  am  voicing  the  opinions  of  all  present  in 
saying  so  much. — 

—  You  are  —  Glynn  said  in  a  firm  tone. —  On  that 
point  Ireland  is  united. — 

He  struck  the  ferrule  of  his  umbrella  on  the  stone  floor 
of  the  colonnade. 

[278] 


—  Hell  —  Temple  said. —  I  can  respect  that  invention 
of  the  grey  spouse  of  Satan.  Hell  is  Koman,  like  the 
walls  of  the  Komans,  strong  and  ugly.  But  what  is 
limbo  ?  — 

—  Put  him  back  into  the  perambulator,  Cranly  — 
O'Keeffe  called  out. 

Cranly  made  a  swift  step  towards  Temple,  halted, 
stamping  his  foot,  crying  as  if  to  a  fowl : 

—  Hoosh !  — 

Temple  moved  away  nimbly. 

—  Do  you  know  what  limbo  is  ?  —  he  cried. —  Do  you 
know  what  we  call  a  notion  like  that  in  Roscom- 
mon?— 

—  Hoosh!  Blast  you!  —  Cranly  cried,  clapping  his 
hands. 

—  Neither  my  arse  nor  my  elbow !  —  Temple  cried  out 
scornfully  —    And  that 's  what  I  call  limbo. — 

—  Give  us  that  stick  here  —  Cranly  said. 

He  snatched  the  ashplant  roughly  from  Stephen's 
hand  and  sprang  down  the  steps:  but  Temple,  hearing 
him  move  in  pursuit,  fled  through  the  dusk  like  a  wild 
creature,  nimble  and  fleet  footed.  Cranly 's  heavy  boots 
were  heard  loudly  charging  across  the  quadrangle  and 
then  returning  heavily,  foiled  and  spurning  the  gravel 
at  each  step. 

His  step  was  angry  and  with  an  angry  abrupt  gesture 
he  thrust  the  stick  back  into  Stephen's  hand.  Stephen 
felt  that  his  anger  had  another  cause,  but  feigning  pa- 
tience, touched  his  arm  slightly  and  said  quietly : 

—  Cranly,  I  told  you  I  wanted  to  speak  to  you.  Come 
away. — 

Cranly  looked  at  him  for  a  few  moments  and  asked : 

—  Now?  — 

[279] 


—  Yes,  now  —  Stephen  said  —  We  can't  speak  here. 
Come  away. — 

They  crossed  the  quadrangle  together  without  speak- 
ing. The  bird  call  from  Siegfried  whistled  softly  fol- 
lowed them  from  the  steps  of  the  porch.  Cranly  turned : 
and  Dixon,  who  had  whistled,  called  out : 

—  Where  are  you  fellows  off  to?  What  about  that 
game,  Cranly?  — 

They  parleyed  in  shouts  across  the  still  air  about  a 
game  of  billiards  to  be  played  in  the  Adelphi  hotel. 
Stephen  walked  on  alone  and  out  into  the  quiet  of  Kil- 
dare  Street  opposite  Maple's  hotel  he  stood  to  wait, 
patient  again.  The  name  of  the  hotel,  a  colourless  pol- 
ished wood,  and  its  colourless  front  stung  him  like  a 
glance  of  polite  disdain.  He  stared  angrily  back  at  the 
softly  lit  drawingroom  of  the  hotel  in  which  he  imagined 
the  sleek  lives  of  the  patricians  of  Ireland  housed  in 
calm.  They  thought  of  army  commissions  and  land 
agents:  peasants  greeted  them  along  the  roads  in  the 
country:  they  knew  the  names  of  certain  French  dishes 
and  gave  orders  to  jarvies  in  highpitched  provin- 
cial voices  which  pierced  through  their  skintight  ac- 
cents. 

How  could  he  hit  their  conscience  or  how  cast  his 
shadow  over  the  imaginations  of  their  daughters,  before 
their  squires  begat  upon  them,  that  they  might  breed 
a  race  less  ignoble  than  their  own?  And  under  the 
deepened  dusk  he  felt  the  thoughts  and  desires  of  the 
race  to  which  he  belonged  flitting  like  bats,  across  the 
dark  country  lanes,  under  trees  by  the  edges  of  streams 
and  near  the  pool  mottled  bogs.  A  woman  had  waited 
in  the  doorway  as  Davin  had  passed  by  at  night  and, 
offering  him  a  cup  of  milk,  had  all  but  wooed  him  to  her 

[280] 


bed:  for  Davin  had  the  mild  eyes  of  one  who  could  be 
secret.    But  him  no  woman's  eyes  had  wooed. 

His  arm  was  taken  in  a  strong  grip  and  Cranly's  voice 
said: 

—  Let  us  eke  go. — 

They  walked  southward  in  silence.    Then  Cranly  said : 

—  That  blithering  idiot,  Temple!  I  swear  to  Moses, 
do  you  know,  that  111  be  the  death  of  that  fellow  one 
time. — 

But  his  voice  was  no  longer  angry  and  Stephen  won- 
dered was  he  thinking  of  her  greeting  to  him  under  the 
porch. 

They  turned  to  the  left  and  walked  on  as  before. 
When  they  had  gone  on  so  far  for  some  time  Stephen 
said: 

—  Cranly,  I  had  an  unpleasant  quarrel  this  evening. — 

—  With  your  people  ?  —  Cranly  asked. 

—  With  my  mother. — 

—  About  religion  ?  — 

—  Yes  —  Stephen  answered. 
After  a  pause  Cranly  asked : 

—  What  age  is  your  mother  ?  — 

—  Not  old  —  Stephen  said. —  She  wishes  me  to  make 
my  caster  duty. — 

—  And  will  you?  — 

—  I  will  not  —  Stephen  said. 

—  Why  not  ?  —  Cranly  said. 

—  I  will  not  serve  —  answered  Stephen. 

—  That  remark  was  made  before  —  Cranly  said  calmly. 

—  It  is  made  behind  now  —  said  Stephen  hotly. 
Cranly  pressed  Stephen's  arm,  saying: 

—  Go  easy,  my  dear  man.  You're  an  excitable  bloody 
man,  do  you  know. — 

[281] 


He  laughed  nervously  as  he  spoke  and,  looking  up 
into  Stephen's  face  with  moved  and  friendly  eyes, 
said: 

—  Do  you  know  that  you  are  an  excitable  man?  — 

—  I  daresay  I  am  —  said  Stephen,  laughing  also. 
Their  minds,  lately  estranged,  seemed  suddenly  to  have 

been  drawn  closer,  one  to  the  other. 

—  Do  you  believe  in  the  eucharist  ?  —  Cranly  asked. 

—  I  do  not  —  Stephen  said. 

—  Do  you  disbelieve  then  ?  — 

—  I  neither  believe  in  it  nor  disbelieve  in  it  —  Stephen 
answered. 

—  Many  persons  have  doubts,  even  religious  persons, 
yet  they  overcome  them  or  put  them  aside  —  Cranly  said. 
—  Are  your  doubts  on  that  point  too  strong  ?  — 

—  I  do  not  wish  to  overcome  them  —  Stephen  an- 
swered. 

Cranly,  embarrassed  for  a  moment,  took  another  fig 
from  his  pocket  and  was  about  to  eat  it  when  Stephen 
said: 

—  Don't,  please.  You  cannot  discuss  this  question 
with  your  mouth  full  of  chewed  fig. — 

Cranly  examined  the  fig  by  the  light  of  a  lamp  under 
which  he  halted.  Then  he  smelt  it  with  both  nostrils, 
bit  a  tiny  piece,  spat  it  out  and  threw  the  fig  rudely  into 
the  gutter.    Addressing  it  as  it  lay,  he  said : 

—  Depart  from  me,  ye  cursed,  into  everlasting  fire !  — 
Taking  Stephen's  arm,  he  went  on  again  and  said: 

—  Do  you  not  fear  that  those  words  may  be  spoken 
to  you  on  the  day  of  judgment  ?  — 

—  What  is  offered  me  on  the  other  hand  ?  —  Stephen 
asked. —  An  eternity  of  bliss  in  the  company  of  the  dean 
of  studies?  — 

[282] 


—  Remember  —  Cranly  said  —  that  he  would  be  glori- 
fied. — 

—  Ay  —  Stephen  said  somewhat  bitterly  —  bright 
agile,  impassible  and,  above  all,  subtle. 

—  It  is  a  curious  thing,  do  you  know — Cranly  said 
dispassionately  —  how  your  mind  is  supersaturated  with 
the  religion  in  which  you  say  you  disbelieve.  Did  you 
believe  in  it  when  you  were  at  school?    I  bet  you  did. — 

—  I  did  —  Stephen  answered. 

—  And  were  you  happier  then  ?  —  Cranly  asked  softly 
—  happier  than  you  are  now,  for  instance  ?  — 

—  Often  happy  —  Stephen  said  —  and  often  unhappy. 
I  was  someone  else  then. — 

—  How  someone  else?  What  do  you  mean  by  that 
statement  ?  — 

—  I  mean  —  said  Stephen  —  that  I  was  not  myself  as 
I  am  now,  as  I  had  to  become. — 

—  Not  as  you  are  now,  not  as  you  had  to  become  — 
Cranly  repeated. —  Let  me  ask  you  a  question.  Do  you 
love  your  mother?  — 

Stephen  shook  his  head  slowly. 

—  I  don't  know  what  your  words  mean  —  he  said 
simply. 

—  Have  you  never  loved  anyone  ?  —  Cranly  asked. 

—  Do  you  mean  women?  — 

—  I  am  not  speaking  of  that  —  Cranly  said  in  a  colder 
tone. —  I  ask  you  if  you  ever  felt  love  towards  anyone 
or  anything. — 

Stephen  walked  on  beside  his  friend,  staring  gloomily 
at  the  footpath. 

—  I  tried  to  love  God  —  he  said  at  length. —  It  seems 
now  I  failed.  It  is  very  difficult.  I  tried  to  unite  my 
will  with  the  will  of  God  instant  by  instant.     In  that  I 

[283] 


did  not  always  fail.    I  could  perhaps  do  that  still  .  .  . — 
Cranly  cut  him  short  by  asking : 

—  Has  your  mother  had  a  happy  life  ?  — 

—  How  do  I  know  ?  —  Stephen  said. 

—  How  many  children  had  she  ?  — 

—  Nine  or  ten  —  Stephen  answered. —  Some  died. — 

—  Was  your  father  .  .  .  . —  Cranly  interrupted  him- 
self for  an  instant :  and  then  said :  —  I  don 't  want  to 
pry  into  your  family  affairs.  But  was  your  father  what 
is  called  well-to-do?  I  mean  when  you  were  growing 
up?  — 

—  Yes  —  Stephen  said. 

—  What  was  he  ?  —  Cranly  asked  after  a  pause. 
Stephen  began  to  enumerate  glibly  his  father's  attri- 
butes. 

—  A  medical  student,  an  oarsman,  a  tenor,  an  amateur 
actor,  a  shouting  politician,  a  small  landlord,  a  small 
investor,  a  drinker,  a  good  fellow,  a  storyteller,  some- 
body's secretary,  something  in  a  distillery,  a  taxgatherer, 
a  bankrupt  and  at  present  a  praiser  of  his  own  past. — 

Cranly  laughed,  tightening  his  grip  on  Stephen's  arm, 
and  said : 

—  The  distillery  is  damn  good. — 

—  Is  there  anything  else  you  want  to  know?  — 
Stephen  asked. 

—  Are  you  in  good  circumstances  at  present  ?  — 

—  Do  I  look  it  ?  —  Stephen  asked  bluntly. 

—  So  then  —  Cranly  went  on  musingly  —  you  were 
born  in  the  lap  of  luxury. — 

He  used  the  phrase  broadly  and  loudly  as  he  often 
used  technical  expressions  as  if  he  wished  his  hearer 
to  understand  that  they  were  used  by  him  without  con- 
viction. 

[284] 


—  Your  mother  must  have  gone  through  a  good  deal 
of  suffering  —  he  said  then. —  Would  you  not  try  to 
save  her  from  suffering  more  even  if  ...  or  would 
you?  — 

—  If  I  could  —  Stephen  said  —  that  would  cost  me 
very  little. — 

—  Then  do  so  —  Cranly  said. —  Do  as  she  wishes  you 
to  do.  What  is  it  for  you  ?  You  disbelieve  in  it.  It  is 
a  form:  nothing  else.  And  you  will  set  her  mind  at 
rest. — 

He  ceased  and,  as  Stephen  did  not  reply,  remained 
silent.  Then,  as  if  giving  utterance  to  the  process  of  his 
own  thought,  he  said: 

—  Whatever  else  is  unsure  in  this  stinking  dunghill  of 
a  world  a  mother's  love  is  not.  Your  mother  brings  you 
into  the  world,  carries  you  first  in  her  body.  What  do 
we  know  about  what  she  feels  ?  But  whatever  she  feels, 
it,  at  least,  must  be  real.  It  must  be.  What  are  our 
ideas  or  ambitions?  Play.  Ideas!  Why,  that  bloody 
bleating  goat  Temple  has  ideas.  MacCann  has  ideas  too. 
Every  jackass  going  the  roads  thinks  he  has  ideas. — 

Stephen,  who  had  been  listening  to  the  unspoken 
speech  behind  the  words,  said  with  assumed  careless- 
ness: 

—  Pascal,  if  I  remember  rightly,  would  not  suffer  his 
mother  to  kiss  him  as  he  feared  the  contact  of  her 
sex. — 

—  Pascal  was  a  pig  —  said  Cranly. 

—  Aloysius  Gonzaga,  I  think,  was  of  the  same  mind  — 
Stephen  said. 

—  And  he  was  another  pig  then  —  said  Cranly. 

—  The  church  calls  him  a  saint  —  Stephen  objected. 

—  I  don't  care  a  flaming  damn  what  anyone  calls  him 

[285] 


—  Cranly  said  rudely  and  flatly. —  I  call  him  a  pig. — 
Stephen,  preparing  the  words  neatly  in  his  mind,  con- 
tinued : 

—  Jesus,  too,  seems  to  have  treated  his  mother  with 
scant  courtesy  in  public  but  Suarez  a  Jesuit  theologian 
and  Spanish  gentleman,  has  apologised  for  him. — 

—  Did  the  idea  ever  occur  to  you  —  Cranly  asked  — 
that  Jesus  was  not  what  he  pretended  to  be  ?  — 

—  The  first  person  to  whom  that  idea  occurred  — 
Stephen  answered  —  was  Jesus  himself. — 

—  I  mean  —  Cranly  said,  hardening  in  his  speech  — 
did  the  idea  ever  occur  to  you  that  he  was  himself  a 
conscious  hypocrite,  what  he  called  the  jews  of  his  time, 
a  white  sepulchre?  Or,  to  put  it  more  plainly,  that  he 
was  a  blackguard  ?  — 

—  That  idea  never  occurred  to  me  —  Stephen  an- 
swered.—  But  I  am  curious  to  know  are  you  trying  to 
make  a  convert  of  me  or  a  pervert  of  yourself  ?  — 

He  turned  towards  his  friend's  face  and  saw  there  a 
raw  smile  which  some  force  of  will  strove  to  make  finely 
significant. — 

Cranly  asked  suddenly  in  a  plain  sensible  tone:  — 
Tell  me  the  truth.  Were  you  at  all  shocked  by  what  I 
said  ?  — 

—  Somewhat  —  Stephen  said. 

—  And  why  were  you  shocked  —  Cranly  pressed  on  in 
the  same  tone  —  if  you  feel  sure  that  our  religion  is  false 
and  that  Jesus  was  not  the  son  of  God  ?  — 

—  I  am  not  at  all  sure  of  it  —  Stephen  said. —  He  is 
more  like  a  son  of  God  than  a  son  of  Mary. — 

—  And  is  that  why  you  will  not  communicate  — 
Cranly  asked  —  because  you  are  not  sure  of  that  too, 
because  you  feel  that  the  host,  too,  may  be  the  body  and 

[286] 


blood  of  the  son  of  God  and  not  a  wafer  of  bread? 
And  because  you  fear  that  it  may  be  ?  — 

—  Yes  —  Stephen  said  quietly  —  I  feel  that  and  I  also 
fear  it. — 

—  I  see. —  Cranly  said. 

Stephen,  struck  by  his  tone  of  closure,  reopened  the 
discussion  at  once  by  saying : 

—  I  fear  many  things :  dogs,  horses,  firearms,  the  sea, 
thunderstorms,  machinery,  the  country  roads  at  night. — 

—  But  why  do  you  fear  a  bit  of  bread  ?  — 

—  I  imagine  —  Stephen  said  —  that  there  is  a  malevo- 
lent reality  behind  those  things  I  say  I  fear. — 

—  Do  you  fear  then  —  Cranly  asked  —  that  the  God  of 
the  Eoman  catholics  would  strike  you  dead  and  damn 
you  if  you  made  a  sacrilegious  communion  ?  — 

—  The  God  of  the  Eoman  catholics  could  do  that 
now  —  Stephen  said.  — I  fear  more  than  that  the 
chemical  action  which  would  be  set  up  in  my  soul  by  a 
false  homage  to  a  symbol  behind  which  are  massed  twenty 
centuries  of  authority  and  veneration. — 

—  Would  you  —  Cranly  asked  —  in  extreme  danger 
commit  that  particular  sacrilege?  For  instance,  if  you 
lived  in  the  penal  days  ?  — 

—  I  cannot  answer  for  the  past  —  Stephen  replied. — 
Possibly  not. — 

—  Then  —  said  Cranly  —  you  do  not  intend  to  become 
a  protestant?  — 

—  I  said  that  I  had  lost  the  faith  —  Stephen  answered 
—  but  not  that  I  had  lost  self  respect.  What  kind  of 
liberation  would  that  be  to  forsake  an  absurdity  which 
is  logical  and  coherent  and  to  embrace  one  which  is  illogi- 
cal and  incoherent  ?  — 

They  had  walked  on  towards  the  township  of  Pem- 
[287] 


broke  and  now,  as  they  went  on  slowly  along  the  avenues, 
the  trees  and  the  scattered  lights  in  the  villas  soothed 
their  minds.  The  air  of  wealth  and  repose  diffused 
about  them  seemed  to  comfort  their  neediness.  Behind 
a  hedge  of  laurel  a  light  glimmered  in  the  window  of  a 
kitchen  and  the  voice  of  a  servant  was  heard  singing 
as  she  sharpened  knives.     She  sang,  in  short  broken  bars, 

Rosie  0  'Grady  — 

Cranly  stopped  to  listen,  saying : 

—  Mulier  cantat, — 

The  soft  beauty  of  the  Latin  word  touched  with  an 
enchanting  touch  the  dark  of  the  evening,  with  a  touch 
fainter  and  more  persuading  than  the  touch  of  music 
or  of  a  woman's  hand.  The  strife  of  their  minds  was 
quelled.  The  figure  of  woman  as  she  appears  in  the 
liturgy  of  the  church  passed  silently  through  the  dark- 
ness: a  white  robed  figure,  small  and  slender  as  a  boy, 
and  with  a  falling  girdle.  Her  voice,  frail  and  high  as  a 
boy's,  was  heard  intoning  from  a  distant  choir  the  first 
words  of  a  woman  which  pierce  the  gloom  and  clamour 
of  the  first  chanting  of  the  passion : 

—  Et  tu  cum  Jesu  Galiloeo  eras. — 

And  all  hearts  were  touched  and  turned  to  her  voice, 
shining  like  a  young  star,  shining  clearer  as  the  voice 
intoned  the  proparoxyton  and  more  faintly  as  the 
cadence  died. 

The  singing  ceased.  They  went  on  together,  Cranly 
repeating  in  strongly  stressed  rhythm  the  end  of  the  re- 
frain : 

And  when  we  are  married, 

O,  how  happy  we'll  he 
For  I  love  sweet  Bosie  O' Grady 
And  Bosie  0  'Grady  loves  me. 
[288] 


—  There's  real  poetry  for  you  —  he  said. —  There's 
real  love. — 

He  glanced  sideways  at  Stephen  with  a  strange  smile 
and  said : 

—  Do  you  consider  that  poetry?  Or  do  you  know 
what  the  words  mean  ?  — 

—  I  want  to  see  Rosie  first  —  said  Stephen. 

—  She's  easy  to  find  —  Cranly  said. 

His  hat  had  come  down  on  his  forehead.  He  shoved 
it  back:  and  in  the  shadow  of  the  trees  Stephen  saw 
his  pale  face,  framed  by  the  dark,  and  his  large  dark 
eyes.  Yes.  His  face  was  handsome:  and  his  body  was 
strong  and  hard.  He  had  spoken  of  a  mother's  love. 
He  felt  then  the  sufferings  of  women,  the  weaknesses  of 
their  bodies  and  souls:  and  would  shield  them  with  a 
strong  and  resolute  arm  and  bow  his  mind  to  them. 

Away  then :  it  is  time  to  go.  A  voice  spoke  softly  to 
Stephen's  lonely  heart,  bidding  him  go  and  telling  him 
that  his  friendship  was  coming  to  an  end.  Yes;  he 
would  go.  He  could  not  strive  against  another.  He 
knew  his  part. 

—  Probably  I  shall  go  away  —  he  said. 

—  "Where  ?  —  Cranly  asked. 

—  Where  I  can  —  Stephen  said. 

—  Yes  —  Cranly  said. —  It  might  be  diflficult  for  you  to 
live  here  now.     But  is  it  that  makes  you  go  ?  — 

—  I  have  to  go  —  Stephen  answered. 

—  Because  —  Cranly  continued  —  you  need  not  look 
upon  yourself  as  driven  away  if  you  do  not  wish  to  go  or 
as  a  heretic  or  an  outlaw.  There  are  many  good  believers 
who  think  as  you  do.  Would  that  surprise  you?  The 
church  is  not  the  stone  building  nor  even  the  clergy 
and  their  dogmas.     It  is  the  whole  mass  of  those  born 

[289] 


into  it.  I  don't  know  what  you  wish  to  do  in  life.  Is 
it  what  you  told  me  the  night  we  were  standing  outside 
Harcourt  Street  station  ?  — 

—  Yes  —  Stephen  said,  smiling  in  spite  of  himself  at 
Cranly's  way  of  remembering  thoughts  in  connexion  with 
places. —  The  night  you  spent  half  an  hour  wrangling 
with  Doherty  about  the  shortest  way  from  Sallygap  to 
Larras. — 

—  Pothead !  —  Cranly  said  with  calm  contempt. — 
What  does  he  know  about  the  way  from  Sallygap  to 
Larras  ?  Or  what  does  he  know  about  anything  for  that 
matter?  And  the  big  slobbering  washingpot  head  of 
him!  — 

He  broke  out  into  a  loud  long  laugh. 

—  Well  ?  —  Stephen  said. —  Do  you  remember  the 
rest?  — 

—  What  you  said,  is  it  ?  —  Cranly  asked. —  Yes,  I  re- 
member it.  To  discover  the  mode  of  life  or  of  art 
whereby  your  spirit  could  express  itself  in  unfettered 
freedom. — 

Stephen  raised  his  hat  in  acknowledgment. 

—  Freedom!  —  Cranly  repeated. —  But  you  are  not 
free  enough  yet  to  commit  a  sacrilege.  Tell  me  would 
you  rob  ?  — 

—  I  would  beg  first  —  Stephen  said. 

—  And  if  you  got  nothing,  would  you  rob  ?  — 

—  You  wish  me  to  say  —  Stephen  answered  —  that 
the  rights  of  property  are  provisional  and  that  in  certain 
circumstances  it  is  not  unlawful  to  rob.  Everyone  would 
act  in  that  belief.  So  I  will  not  make  you  that  answer. 
Apply  to  the  Jesuit  theologian  Juan  Mariana  de  Tala- 
vera  who  will  also  explain  to  you  in  what  circumstances 
you  may  lawfully  kill  your  king  and  whether  you  had 

[290] 


better  hand  him  his  poison  in  a  goblet  or  smear  it  for 
him  upon  his  robe  or  his  saddlebow.  Ask  me  rather 
would  I  suffer  others  to  rob  me  or,  if  they  did,  would  I 
call  down  upon  them  w^hat  I  believe  is  called  the  chastise- 
ment of  the  secular  arm  ?  — 

—  And  would  you  1  — 

—  I  think  —  Stephen  said  —  it  would  pain  me  as  much 
to  do  as  to  be  robbed. — 

—  I  see  —  Cranly  said. 

He  produced  his  match  and  began  to  clean  the  crevice 
between  two  teeth.     Then  he  said  carelessly : 

—  Tell  me,  for  example,  would  you  deflower  a  vir- 
gin?— 

—  Excuse  me  —  Stephen  said  politely  —  is  that  not 
the  ambition  of  most  young  gentlemen  ?  — 

—  What  then  is  your  point  of  view?  —  Cranly  asked. 
His  last  phrase,  sour  smelling  as  the  smoke  of  charcoal 

and  disheartening,  excited  Stephen's  brain,  over  which 
its  fumes  seemed  to  brood. 

—  Look  here,  Cranly  —  he  said.- -You  have  asked  me 
what  I  would  do  and  what  I  would  not  do.  I  will  tell 
you  what  I  will  do  and  what  I  w^ill  not  do.  I  will  not 
serve  that  in  which  I  no  longer  believe,  whether  it  call 
itself  my  home,  my  fatherland  or  my  church:  and  I 
will  try  to  express  myself  in  some  mode  of  life  or  art  as 
freely  as  I  can  and  as  wholly  as  I  can,  using  for  my 
defence  the  only  arms  I  allow  myself  to  use,  silence,  ex- 
ile and  cunning. — 

Cranly  seized  his  arm  and  steered  him  round  so  as  to 
lead  back  towards  Lesson  Park.  He  laughed  almost  slyly 
and  pressed  Stephen's  arm  with  an  elder's  affection. 

—  Cunning  indeed !  —  he  said. —  Is  it  you  ?  You  poor 
poet,  you !  — 

[291] 


—  And  you  made  me  confess  to  you  —  Stephen  said, 
thrilled  by  his  touch  —  as  I  have  confessed  to  you  so 
many  other  things,  have  I  not  ?  — 

—  Yes,  my  child  —  Cranly  said,  still  gaily. 

—  You  made  me  confess  the  fears  that  I  have.  But  I 
will  tell  you  also  what  I  do  not  fear.  I  do  not  fear  to 
be  alone  or  to  be  spurned  for  another  or  to  leave  what- 
ever I  have  to  leave.  And  I  am  not  afraid  to  make  a 
mistake,  even  a  great  mistake,  a  lifelong  mistake  and  per- 
haps as  long  as  eternity  too. — 

Cranly,  now  grave  again,  slowed  his  pace  and  said : 

—  Alone,  quite  alone.  You  have  no  fear  of  that. 
And  you  know  what  that  word  means?  Not  only  to 
be  separate  from  all  others  but  to  have  not  even  one 
friend. — 

—  I  will  take  the  risk  —  said  Stephen. 

—  And  not  to  have  any  one  person  —  Cranly  said  — 
who  would  be  more  than  a  friend,  more  even  than  the 
noblest  and  truest  friend  a  man  ever  had. — 

His  words  seemed  to  have  struck  some  deep  chord 
in  his  own  nature.  Had  he  spoken  of  himself,  of  himself 
as  he  was  or  wished  to  be?  Stephen  watched  his  face 
for  some  moments  in  silence.  A  cold  sadness  was  there. 
He  had  spoken  of  himself,  of  his  own  loneliness  which 
he  feared. 

—  Of  whom  are  you  speaking?  —  Stephen  asked  at 
length. — 

Cranly  did  not  answer. 


March  20.     Long  talk  with  Cranly  on  the  subject  of 
my  revolt. 
He  had  his  grand  manner  on.     I  supple  and  suave. 
[292]^  ,. 


Attacked  me  on  the  score  of  love  for  one's  mother. 
Tried  to  imagine  his  mother:  cannot.  Told  me  once,  in 
a  moment  of  thoughtlessness,  his  father  was  sixty-one 
when  he  was  born.  Can  see  him.  Strong  farmer  type. 
Pepper  and  salt  suit.  Square  feet.  Unkempt  grizzled 
beard.  Probably  attends  coursing  matches.  Pays  his 
dues  regularly  but  not  plentifully  to  Father  Dwyer  of 
Larras.  Sometimes  talks  to  girls  after  nightfall.  But 
his  mother  ?  Very  young  or  very  old  ?  Hardly  the  first. 
If  so,  Cranly  would  not  have  spoken  as  he  did.  Old 
then.  Probably,  and  neglected.  Hence  Cranly 's  despair 
of  soul :  the  child  of  exhausted  loins. 

March  21,  morning.  Thought  this  in  bed  last  night 
but  was  too  lazy  and  free  to  add  it.  Free,  yes.  The 
exhausted  loins  are  those  of  Elizabeth  and  Zacchary. 
Then  he  is  the  precursor.  Item:  he  eats  chiefly  belly 
bacon  and  dried  figs.  Read  locusts  and  wild  honey. 
Also,  when  thinking  of  him,  saw  always  a  stem  severed 
head  or  death  mask  as  if  outlined  on  a  grey  curtain  or 
veronica.  Decollation  they  call  it  in  the  fold.  Puzzled 
for  the  moment  by  saint  John  at  the  Latin  gate.  What 
do  I  see?  A  decollated  precursor  trying  to  pick  the 
lock. 

March  21,  night.  Free.  Soul  free  and  fancy  free. 
Let  the  dead  bury  the  dead.  Ay.  And  let  the  dead 
marry  the  dead. 

March  22.  In  company  with  Lynch  followed  a  sizable 
hospital  nurse.  Lynches  idea.  Dislike  it.  Two  lean 
hungry  greyhounds  walking  after  a  heifer. 

March  23.  Have  not  seen  her  since  that  night.  Un- 
well? Sits  at  the  fire  perhaps  with  mamma's  shawl  on 
her  shoulders.  But  not  peevish.  A  nice  bowl  of  gruel? 
Won 't  you  now  ? 

[293] 


March  24.  Began  with  a  discussion  with  my  mother. 
Subject :  B.V.M.  Handicapped  by  my  sex  and  youth. 
To  escape  held  up  relations  between  Jesus  and  Papa 
against  those  between  Mary  and  her  son.  Said  religion 
was  not  a  lying-in  hospital.  Mother  indulgent.  Said 
I  have  a  queer  mind  and  have  read  too  much.  Not  true. 
Have  read  little  and  understood  less.  Then  she  said  I 
would  come  back  to  faith  because  I  had  a  restless  mind. 
This  means  to  leave  church  by  backdoor  of  sin  and  re- 
enter through  the  skylight  of  repentance.  Cannot  re- 
pent. Told  her  so  and  asked  for  sixpence.  Got  three- 
pence. 

Then  went  to  college.  Other  wrangle  with  little  round 
head  rogue's  eye  Ghezzi.  This  time  about  Bruno  the 
Nolan.  Began  in  Italian  and  ended  in  pidgin  English. 
He  said  Bruno  was  a  terrible  heretic.  I  said  he  was  ter- 
ribly burned.  He  agreed  to  this  with  some  sorrow. 
Then  gave  me  recipe  for  what  he  calls  ristollo  alia  her- 
gamasca.  When  he  pronounces  a  soft  o  he  protrudes 
his  full  carnal  lips  as  if  he  kissed  the  vowel.  Has  he? 
And  could  he  repent?  Yes,  he  could:  and  cry  two 
round  rogue's  tears,  one  from  each  eye. 

Crossing  Stephen's,  that  is,  my  Green,  remembered 
that  his  countrymen  and  not  mine  had  invented  what 
Cranly  the  other  night  called  our  religion.  A  quartet  of 
them,  soldiers  of  the  ninetyseventh  infantry  regiment, 
sat  at  the  foot  of  the  cross  and  tossed  up  dice  for  the 
overcoat  of  the  crucified. 

Went  to  library.  Tried  to  read  three  reviews.  Use- 
less. She  is  not  out  yet.  Am  I  alarmed  ?  About  what  ? 
That  she  will  never  be  out  again. 

Blake  wrote : 

I  294] 


/  wonder  if   William  Bond  will  die. 
For  assuredly  he  is  very  ill, 

Alas,  poor  "William ! 

I  was  once  at  a  diorama  in  Rotunda.  At  the  end  were 
pictures  of  big  nobs.  Among  them  William  Ewart  Glad- 
stone, just  then  dead.  Orchestra  played  0,  Willie,  we 
have  missed  you, 

A  race  of  clodhoppers ! 

March  25,  morning,  A  troubled  night  of  dreams. 
Want  to  get  them  off  my  chest. 

A  long  curving  gallery.  From  the  floor  ascend  pillars 
of  dark  vapours.  It  is  peopled  by  the  images  of  fabulous 
kings,  set  in  stone.  Their  hands  are  folded  upon  their 
knees  in  token  of  weariness  and  their  eyes  are  darkened 
for  the  errors  of  men  go  up  before  them  for  ever  as  dark 
vapours. 

Strange  figures  advance  as  from  a  cave.  They  are 
not  as  tall  as  men.  One  does  not  seem  to  stand  quite 
apart  from  another.  Their  faces  are  phosphorescent, 
with  darker  streaks.  They  peer  at  me  and  their  eyes 
seem  to  ask  me  something.     They  do  not  speak. 

March  30.  This  evening  Cranly  was  in  the  porch  of 
the  library,  proposing  a  problem  to  Dixon  and  her 
brother.  A  mother  let  her  child  fall  into  the  Nile.  Still 
harping  on  the  mother.  A  crocodile  seized  the  child. 
Mother  asked  it  back.  Crocodile  said  all  right  if  she 
told  him  what  he  was  going  to  do  with  the  child,  eat  it  or 
not  eat  it. 

This  mentality,  Lepidus  would  say,  is  indeed  bred  out 
of  your  mud  by  the  operation  of  your  sun. 

And  mine  ?  Is  it  not  too  ?  Then  into  Nile  mud  with 
it! 

[295] 


April  1.     Disapprove  of  this  last  phrase. 

April  2.  Saw  her  drinking  tea  and  eating  cakes  in 
Johnston's,  Mooney  and  O'Brien's.  Rather,  lynx  eyed 
Lynch  saw  her  as  we  passed.  He  tells  me  Cranly  was 
invited  there  by  brother.  Did  he  bring  his  crocodile? 
Is  he  the  shining  light  now?  Well,  I  discovered  him. 
I  protest  I  did.  Shining  quietly  behind  a  bushel  of 
Wicklow  bran. 

April  3.  Met  Davin  at  the  cigar  shop  opposite  Find- 
later 's  church.  He  was  in  a  black  sweater  and  had  a 
hurley  stick.  Asked  me  was  it  true  I  was  going  away 
and  why.  Told  him  the  shortest  way  to  Tara  was  via 
Holyhead.  Just  then  my  father  came  up.  Introduction. 
Father,  polite  and  observant.  Asked  Davin  if  he  might 
offer  him  some  refreshment.  Davin  could  not,  was  go- 
ing to  a  meeting.  When  we  came  away  father  told  me  he 
had  a  good  honest  eye.  Asked  me  why  I  did  not  join  a 
rowing  club.  I  pretended  to  think  it  over.  Told  me 
then  how  he  broke  Pennyfeather's  heart.  Wants  me  to 
read  law.  Says  I  was  cut  out  for  that.  More  mud,  more 
crocodiles. 

April  5.  Wild  spring.  Scudding  clouds.  0  life! 
Dark  stream  of  swirling  bogwater  on  which  apple  trees 
have  cast  down  their  delicate  flowers.  Eyes  of  girls 
among  the  leaves.  Girls  demure  and  romping.  All  fair 
or  auburn :  no  dark  ones.     They  blush  better.     Houp-la ! 

April  6.  Certainly  she  remembers  the  past.  Lynch 
says  all  women  do.  Then  she  remembers  the  time  of  her 
childhood  —  and  mine  if  I  was  ever  a  child.  The  past 
is  consumed  in  the  present  and  the  present  is  living  only 
because  it  brings  forth  the  future.  Statues  of  women, 
if  Lynch  be  right,  should  always  be  fully  draped,  one 

[296] 


hand  of  the  woman  feeling  regretfully  her  own  hinder 
parts. 

April.  6,  later.  Michael  Eobartes  remembers  forgot- 
ten beauty  and,  when  his  arms  wrap  her  round,  he  presses 
in  his  arms  the  loveliness  which  has  long  faded  from  the 
world.  Not  this.  Not  at  all.  I  desire  to  press  in  my 
arms  the  loveliness  which  has  .not  yet  come  into  the 
world. 

April  10.  Faintly,  under  the  heavy  night,  through 
the  silence  of  the  city  which  has  turned  from  dreams 
to  dreamless  sleep  as  a  weary  lover  whom  no  caresses 
move,  the  sound  of  hoofs  upon  the  road.  Not  so  faintly 
now  as  they  come  near  the  bridge:  and  in  a  moment  as 
they  pass  the  darkened  windows  the  silence  is  cloven  by 
alarm  as  by  an  arrow.  They  are  heard  now  far  away, 
hoofs  that  shine  amid  the  heavy  night  as  gems,  hurrying 
beyond  the  sleeping  fields  to  what  journey's  end  —  what 
heart  ?  —  bearing  what  tidings  ? 

April  11.  Read  what  I  wrote  last  night.  Vague 
words  for  a  vague  emotion.  Would  she  like  it  ?  I  think 
so.     Then  I  should  have  to  like  it  also. 

April  13.  That  tundish  has  been  on  my  mind  for  a 
long  time.  I  looked  it  up  and  find  it  English  and  good 
old  blunt  English  too.  Damn  the  dean  of  studies  and 
his  funnel !  What  did  he  come  here  for  to  teach  us  his 
own  language  or  to  learn  it  from  us.  Damn  him  one 
way  or  the  other ! 

April  14.  John  Alphonsus  Mulrennan  has  just  re- 
turned from  the  west  of  Ireland,  European  and  Asiatic 
papers  please  copy.  He  told  us  he  met  an  old  man  there 
in  a  mountain  cabin.  Old  man  had  red  eyes  and  short 
pipe.     Old  man  spoke  Irish.    Mulrennan  spoke  Irish. 

[297] 


Then  old  man  and  Mulrennan  spoke  English.  Mulren- 
nan  spoke  to  him  about  universe  and  stars.  Old  man  sat, 
listened,  smoked,  spat.     Then  said : 

—  Ah,  there  must  be  terrible  queer  creatures  at  the  lat- 
ter end  of  the  world. — 

I  fear  him.  I  fear  his  redrimmed  horny  eyes.  It  is 
with  him  I  must  struggle  all  through  this  night  till  day 
come,  till  he  or  I  lie  dead,  gripping  him  by  the  sinewy 
throat  till  .  .  .  Till  what?  Till  he  yield  to  me?  No. 
I  mean  him  no  harm. 

April  15.  Met  her  today  point  blank  in  Grafton 
Street.  The  crowd  brought  us  together.  We  both 
stopped.  She  asked  me  why  I  never  came,  said  she 
had  heard  all  sorts  of  stories  about  me.  This  was  only . 
to  gain  time.  Asked  me,  was  I  writing  poems?  About 
whom  ?  I  asked  her.  This  confused  her  more  and  I  felt 
sorry  and  mean.  Turned  off  that  valve  at  once  and 
opened  the  spiritual-heroic  refrigerating  apparatus,  in- 
vented and  patented  in  all  countries  by  Dante  Alighieri. 
Talked  rapidly  of  myself  and  my  plans.  In  the  midst  of 
it  unluckily  I  made  a  sudden  gesture  of  a  revolutionary 
nature.  I  must  have  looked  like  a  fellow  throwing  a 
handful  of  peas  up  into  the  air.  People  began  to  look  at 
us.  She  shook  hands  a  moment  after  and,  in  going  away, 
said  she  hoped  I  would  do  what  I  said. 

Now  I  call  that  friendly,  don't  you? 

Yes,  I  liked  her  today.  A  little  or  much?  Don't 
know.  I  liked  her  and  it  seems  a  new  feeling  to  me. 
Then,  in  that  case,  all  the  rest,  all  that  I  thought  I 
thought  and  all  that  I  felt  I  felt,  all  the  rest  before 
now,  in  fact  ...  0,  give  it  up,  old  chap !     Sleep  it  off ! 

April  16.    Away !    Away ! 

The  spell  of  arms  and  voices :  the  white  arms  of  roads, 
[298] 


their  promise  of  close  embraces  and  the  black  arms  of 
tall  ships  that  stand  against  the  moon,  their  tale  of  dis- 
tant nations.  They  are  held  out  to  say :  We  are  alone 
—  come.  And  the  voices  say  with  them :  We  are  your 
kinsmen.  And  the  air  is  thick  with  their  company  as 
they  call  to  me,  their  kinsman,  making  ready  to  go,  shak- 
ing the  wings  of  their  exultant  and  terrible  youth. 

April  26.  Mother  is  putting  my  new  secondhand 
clothes  in  order.  She  prays  now,  she  says,  that  I  may 
learn  in  my  own  life  and  away  from  home  and  friends 
what  the  heart  is  and  what  it  feels.  Amen.  So  be  it. 
Welcome,  0  life!  I  go  to  encounter  for  the  millionth 
time  the  reality  of  experience  and  to  forge  in  the  smithy 
of  my  soul  the  uncreated  conscience  of  my  race. 

April  27.  Old  father,  old  artificer,  stand  me  now  and 
ever  in  good  stead. 


THE  END 


Dublin,  1904. 
Trieste,  1914. 


[299] 


